“You wouldn’t understand…it’s a Southern thing.”
Writing by treason on Thursday, 26 of October , 2006 at 6:38 am
I said something yesterday on The V.O.T. that I felt could be interpreted as an insult to Southerners. That was certainly not my intention, so allow me to clarify. What I said was this: “I think another Southerner in the White House would be a mistake.”
You can scroll down and read the entire section if you like, but what I was saying was that after eight years of Bush, eight years of Clinton, and four years of Bush’ dad who had some issues with oratory, it would be refreshing to take a break from “plain speaking” and move towards candidates - possibly Northerners - who have speech patterns and dialects that could be more difficult to imitate or mock. For variety’s sake, I said.
Don’t misunderstand. I would enjoy a candidate - a President - who sounded like John Cullum, as South Carolinian Edward Rutledge, in 1776.
“Molasses to rum to slaves
Who sails the ships back to Boston?
Ladened with gold, see it gleam
Whose fortunes are made in the triangle trade?
Hail slavery, the New England dream!
Mr. Adams, I give you a toast:
Hail Boston! Hail Charleston!
Who stinketh the most?”
Where are those eloquent Southern gentlemen of yesteryear? All I was saying is that it would be nice to have a little formality restored to the office. A little eloquence. Virginia’s George Allen is regarded as a Southerner, but — truth be told — George was born in Southern California and raised both on the West Coast and in the suburbs of Chicago. But he has a mild twang and wears cowboy boots, so he is mocked. The problem with George is not where he’s from or what he wears on his feet; the problem is how he fumbled the recent macaca/Jewish mother controversy.
But now that I’ve mentioned George, it reminds me of the old line: “If your mother is Jewish, you’re Jewish.” Italians tend to think the same way. If your mother’s Italian, you’re Italian. As for me, I was raised by my Italian mother and had more contact with her and her family and, because I looked more like them, was considered genetically closer to them and not to my father’s English/Dutch family. My father’s English/Dutch/Virginian family. Relatives, incidentally, that I’ve never met.
It’s funny because I often hear from people that I don’t “look Italian.” I would have guessed English, they say. Is that because everyone assumes that all Italians are short, dark, and furry? My mother, like my father, is fair and blue-eyed. Mom’s a Munchkin, of course, but most of her siblings and her mother were quite tall. Eye color in her family runs the gamut: brown, blue, green, hazel. Hair: brown, blond, auburn. Long legs, long arms (my siblings and I could always tie our shoes without bending over). True, I do not look like Sophia Loren (damn), but I can tell that I am a product of both my mother and father because I have inherited traits from each side of the family tree.
As for my father, he left the horse farms of the Shenandoah Valley as a teen, hopped a train with his Boston Terrier, Sally, and headed for Chicago. And he was kept by a wealthy older woman who taught him all about…decorum. My father was brilliant, had a wonderful speaking voice, perfect penmanship, and could do anything he set his mind to. He loved Chicago and the Cubs and he enjoyed the cool, dark interior of the tavern.
My mother said he was exciting and charming and had her completely hoodwinked. She said he claimed his family came over on the Mayflower. Unlikely - I’ve seen the ship’s roster. Or maybe he said it was another ship - my mother was never an attentive listener. I assumed it was just something people said about their family history, but in recent years I’ve done some research about my father’s family - which seems to have settled heavily in Virginia and Kentucky - and there are photographs of family tombstones placed in Virginia soil in the 1700’s that are still there today. Perhaps Dad wasn’t blowing smoke, after all.
As I get older I find I’m getting more in touch with my inner ribelle. That’s Italian for rebel. A dirty word these days if you’re referring to the South. I prefer ribelle because there’s a “belle” inside it. But no mint juleps and cotillions for me, thank you.
No, I’ve been exploring my Southern roots and I’ve discovered one of the best ways to do it is to settle down with a case of double-decker MoonPies. No grits, no biscuits and gravy. No, I prefer Southern delicacies like chocolate covered, vanilla crème center Krispy Kremes; sweet potato, peach, and pecan pie; and GooGoo Clusters.
Living in Nuevo Mexico reminds me why I like posole. Even when I was little, I liked hominy. But, as I was sitting here the other day debating whether I should get up and go to the kitchen for another 300-calorie MoonPie, I heard something on the radio that got my Southern hackles up.
New legislation is being proposed and something caught my ear. The issue concerns the parking of one’s vehicle on one’s lawn. Since traditional lawn isn’t especially common in the desert, the law will extend to those who park vehicles on rocks, gravel, and weeds, too. Or any combination that constitutes their “yard.”
It’s called the Goober Amendment. Uh…am I to assume that New Mexicans are parking their cars on…peanuts? I immediately complained to T who thought I was silly for finding the term offensive.
“So what? What’s a goober, anyway? I can only think of that character on - what was it - The Andy Griffith Show? What’s the big deal?”
“I think it’s intentional. It’s meant to be derogatory.”
“You’re sounding like someone who is looking to be offended.”
“It’s insulting to Southerners. It assumes that people who live in the South are stupid and classless and think cars are lawn ornaments.”
“You’re overreacting.”
And then I found myself quoting the MoonPie website:
“Aaaarrrggghhh! It’s a Southern thing… you just wouldn’t understand!”
Well! I’m certain the term wasn’t meant as a compliment. But, for now, I think I’ll have a nice cup of tea…and maybe another MoonPie…and I’ll…I’ll just think about that other thing tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day!
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