Hey Ya'll! I wrote this for an essay contest. The piece needed to revolve around being southern and sinnin'.
.jpg)
Southern Sin
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
In the South there is
sinnin’ of the salacious sort – lower case “s”, no “g”. It rolls off the tongue like honey - easy to
say, easy to do, easy to repent. Sinnin’
is considered a mild infraction and an expected part of the culture, at least
where I’m from. We have it down to an
art form. I love that about the
South. We erect boundaries of propriety which
seem to be set in place for the sole joy of pushing against them. What is the fun in nudging against
emptiness? No walls of expectations
equates to less frolicking, in my opinion.
A perfect example of sinnin’ would be missing Sunday Church due to a
little unanticipated Saturday night hedonism and then blithely arriving at
Sunday dinner with a dimpled smile and a kiss on the cheek for your mother as
an apology. She gives you a look, you
give her some sugar and all is forgiven.
There is balance in the world.
On the other hand, there is Sinning-add the capital “S” to
the beginning and a “g” on the end. For
those of you who don’t speak Southern-ese, I will pass along this tidbit: it’s hard to say that last g in Sinning. It takes a conscious stretching of the lips
and a clenching of the jaw. There is a required
tension in the speaking that is physically uncomfortable – hard to say, hard to
do, hard to repent of. This Sinning with
the capital “S” is a step above (or a step below, maybe) sinnin’ and is
supported by fire and brimstone because there is no smile charming enough or
sugar sweet enough to grant salvation. It
equates to a major action against God and country (and by country I mean the South,
of course.)
Another thing about Southerners that maybe you didn’t know,
they love to trace their genealogy. Like
sweet tea left to brew in the hot sun for most of the day, love for family and
ancestry is strong and we like it that way.
We honor our roots and accept the warts – it is our tree and it is to be
protected. I currently live on the west
coast and when I meet a Southerner out here there is an immediate connection to
a common land and history that comes without effort. It is lovely to behold and I count myself
lucky to be included in that club. The
first giveaway in finding fellow displaced Southerners is the accent. It is an accent that never fails to quicken
my Southern DNA with a jolt and then comes the remembered relaxation of the
South. It is a way of being that can be
unlearned but not forgotten.
And it is here, Dear Reader, that I confess to you that at
the tender age of 18 I Sinned (note the capital “S”) against my 300 year
Southern heritage.
Before crucifying me, please hear my story as no action ever
arrives without some previous provocation and mine arrived in the form of a
university in the Southwestern US.
“You’ll never go anywhere with an accent like that.”
I sat in the cold, sterile room of my university advisor. I stared at him at a complete loss.
“What accent?” I replied.
It was my second day out of the South – ever. I had arrived by plane the day before with
clothes still very damp from the North Carolina humidity. They smelled so good
like sawdust and honeysuckle. His words
struck me deep because my sole purpose for attending this university was to “go
somewhere”. Sadly, being young and
naïve, I believed him - that the sum result of all of my ambition rested soley on the way my words sounded when they left my mouth. I was never going
to go anywhere because apparently no one out here could understand half the
words in the sentences I uttered. It made
every interaction frustrating and prolonged.
I was gently teased and cruelly mocked. I realized that I was viewed as lazy and
dim-witted. It was sad to be seen that
way when I knew differently but I knew I needed to survive and “go somewhere”. In order to survive I needed to thrive.
Certain other Southern idiosyncrasies also became
apparent during my early days at university. One of those was normal
walking gate – some might call it sauntering.
Charging quickly across campus, head down, seemed a waste of
opportunities to appreciate whatever happened to come my way. But I was often tardy for class and I didn’t like that
either. Change was in order for me. I had
never had to briskly walk anywhere for any length of time before and I found
that although I would start off at a quick gate, my natural stride asserted
itself when I wasn’t paying attention. After
a few days of continued tardiness I learned to keep my head down and chant the
word “go”, “go”, “go” as I walked. It
seemed to help keep my tempo up. I also learned that replying “yes, ma’am” to
the question of a professor will get you evicted from class. Word of warning: in some parts of the country
being polite can be rude. It was a
whole new world and I needed to learn it.
After a semester of adjustment, I could now walk
briskly, not be too polite to my elders, and not correct professors in
their pronunciation of Appalachian Mountains.
I was making such progress! I no
longer went into grocery stores expecting grits or Cheerwine and I never
considered ordering sweet tea at a restaurant.
What a quick learner! I really should have been so proud.
But there was still the accent to consider and it was at
this point, Dear Reader, that I sold my soul to devil for the “gift” of
tongues. I’d like to say it was an
affectation that I wore and inside I stayed the same – role-playing. But the devil is wily and in this trade it
was my soul that was demanded and my soul he got. In fact, it seemed to me that a Yankee soul
for my Southern soul was to be the trade.
My speech became quick, bullet-like, every syllable enunciated. My
mannerisms followed. My face even felt
foreign as I learned to move it in unaccustomed ways as I adjusted to ending my
words and not combining syllables. My
jaw tightened, my lips pursed. I was
efficient, hardened and cold. In fact,
I remember thinking, “This must be what it feels like to be a Yankee...”
My Sinning (with the hard "g" as a final punctuation) was
complete. Amen.
Twenty years have passed since that time and I still don’t
have a strong Southern accent. I will forever carry around that 18 year old
inside – her deal with the devil still stands.
It is like a tumor inside – black and ugly. But as the years passed life experiences have
allowed my soul to grow back bigger, more beautiful, warmer, more
Southern. My “Yes, Ma’am”s and “ya’ll”s
are as prevalent as the “g”s are absent at the end of my sentences. The 18 year old is there but so is the 21
year old, the 25, 31, 35… And what a
blessing that is – to more than what you were!
No incarnation is the final one.
Life changes us and that can be a gift – but it can also change us back
and that is also a gift.
