My Old South

American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God

I absolutely love this. I love it because it's kind of obnoxious. I love it because it suggests that being Southern somehow makes you better, yet there is a twinge of self-deprecating sarcasm to it. I love that it has a bite. I love that it doesn't make excuses. I love that it's kind of insecure. I have always loved it and I have always understood it.

I believe it and I am it.

I was raised in the capital of the Confederacy - Richmond, which does not need to be qualified with a state - and spent many a summer in the cradle of secession - Charleston. My Southern credentials more than suffice.

I write of my love and respect for the South, yet I write from Connecticut, the capital of Yankeedom. I have settled here. I have made my home here. I am raising my family here. It fits me like a glove. I love it here.

North and South. Yin and yang. Up and down. Blank and white. Felix and Oscar. The two are different, yes. But, to me, not mutually exclusive.

Do I ignore and/or sugarcoat the many stains on the South's white linen suit of a past? No. So, do I duly condemn the South, like so many do? No. Part of unconditionally loving something is to look past its flaws. I really don't have anything else to say about this.

When I think of the south, I don't think about cotton plantations, mint juleps, and water hoses fired at African Americans. I think about Bohicket Road on Johns Island, South Carolina.

I think about sprawling live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, reaching out over the road to shake hands with each other, creating flying buttresses that make the insufferable South Carolina midday resemble dusk in look and feel.

I think about the retired field, overgrown with kudzu. What did they grow there? Rice? Corn?

I think about the adjacent wood-framed building, with chipped paint and broken windows. The rusted red tin roof is barely visible through the aggressive, verdant, sub-tropical growth.

I think about the ubiquitous gray, sandy soil that comes up to the road.

I think about the marshes, the smell of mud and salt, earth and sand.

I think about sprinting across the hot, soft, gray sand and the slight squeak your feet made. I think about the salvation of the packed sand, cooled by the high tide that has conceded.

I think about low tide and a beach that went on forever.

I think about the water, saltier and less sweet and metallic than the water here.

I think about the palpable heat and the smell of horse manure.

I think about Pinckney Street and palmettos.

I think about the food and the lilts, the churches and the narrow streets.

My old South is a tremendous part of me. Too fundamental to ignore. There are so many qualities endemic to it that I want to instill in my children. I want my daughter to be gracious and humble, initially deferential, but always strong in spirit. I want my sons to be gentlemen, uncomfortable having doors held for them. I want them all to move slowly, have a sharp wit that they use tactfully, perfect the art of engaging conversation, and not take life too seriously.

When I'm stressed or unhappy and need to be transported to a "happy" place, I use many, if not all, of the visuals I laid out above. They ground me. They center me. They get me back on track. They fill me up with good things. I exhale. By the grace of God, indeed.