Leaving Home, Finding Roots

I never felt particularly southern. I've always defended my home state of Mississippi, wanting people I meet to know that all Mississippians are not by nature dumb, shoeless, ignorant, or trashy. I always want people to know about Mississippi's rich tradition of writers, musicians, entrepreneurs, and generally wonderful people. I want to tell everyone about my hometown of Oxford's independent bookstore, Square Books. About William Faulkner's home. I love my city and my state and I will always defend and cherish it.

Rowan Oak, home of William Faulkner, and nighttime
stomping ground for teenagers trying to prove they aren't
afraid of ghosts.

But "southern" is not an idea that I relate to. When I hear people talk about what it means to be southern, the usual answers don't apply to me. I don't like sweet tea. I don't listen to country music. I have an irrational hatred of cowboy boots. (All cowboy boots. Make them stop.) I've never ridden or driven a four-wheeler or a truck, I don't hunt (I've never even shot a gun), I've never gone muddin' (what is it?), I'm not a fan of Paula Deen, I don't own any camo clothing (OK I did have a cute pair of camo ballet flats once, but I wore them ironically...sort of), and I don't sing the song Dixie. I've never tried to be, or been told to be, a model of southern hospitality or a southern belle. I didn't think I'd miss the south when I moved. Friends, family, favorite places—sure. The south, as a whole, as a big idea? Naw.

And then we moved. So excited to be in a new place, with a new climate (80-degree weather triggers heat alerts here, people!) and new attitudes. Loving how weird people's hair and clothing can be without drawing any stares on the street. Thrilled to live near mountains, beaches, and rainforests all at once. Fascinated to be in a city with liberal political leanings. This is great! we thought. This is so much better than 100-degree heat and too much fried food. 

We are happy in Seattle. The northwest suits us. We love gray days and mostly don't mind the rain. The summers are gorgeous and there are parks and beaches with amazing views anywhere we go. Our neighborhood has fun local stores and restaurants and attracts great bands throughout the year.

And yet, when we hear a southern accent across the room, our ears perk up. We come out of our introverted shells for a moment to hone in on the person and find a way to start talking to them, to ask where they're from. We don't balk when they say Virginia—it may not have counted when we lived in the heart of Mississippi but from here, it's close enough. We relate to them with anything we can: football, restaurants here that claim to be southern, our mutual awe in the face of the northwestern landscape.

Back home, I was always proud of the fact that people told me I pretty much don't have a southern accent. I liked thinking of myself as not easily pinpointed, labeled, or recognized. Now, I smile when my friends point out my long Is or laugh when I answer my grandmother's phone call with "Yes ma'am." I blush with pride, as well as embarrassment, when someone tells me my southern accent really comes out after a drink or two.

I don't like sweet tea, I will not listen to country music, and I don't believe southern belles should be a thing anymore. But I love my home, and the sound of cicadas at night. I'll still call all the sodas in the fridge Cokes, and I will never stop correcting people who misuse the word y'all.