(Contributed by Alli)
It’s 11 a.m. on a Saturday morning and I’m sitting in the living room of my apartment in Oklahoma. I’ve had two cups of coffee and I’m three episodes into a show I’ve seen all the way through at least 5 times before, but what can I say? I’m more of a creature of habit than I’d like to admit. The show follows a big‑city‑born doctor that moved to a stereotypical small town in Alabama. While some parts of the show are obviously exaggerated, I believe there are several things that the show gets right. However, I don’t think you could really understand that unless you moved outside of the region that God spent the most time making and the place that only those who can deal with the heat, humidity, mosquitoes, bacon grease, and fried everything get to call home—The South.
A little about me first. I grew up in Alabama. It’s the Heart of Dixie, the home of the Crimson Tide, the originator of Mardi Gras, and it’s where engineers built the first rocket to put humans on the moon. Most importantly, it’s home to my favorite gas station that doubles as a breakfast meeting place where the farmers get together to talk about the weather, tractor parts, and undoubtedly fuss about how some politician did something that wasn’t kosher. My favorite table is next to the wall—the one next to an orange and blue painted chain tacked on the wall in the shape of a saw with a sign hanging under it explaining that it is an “Auburn Chainsaw.” See, the owner of the store loves Alabama football. As an Alabamian, one must choose a side, either Auburn or Alabama, regardless of whether the Alabamian in question attended the institution. I’m sure that rule is written somewhere in the state constitution. My favorite table is also next the fluorescent blue bug zapper. I like it because you can hear the slight zing when a fly hits it. It makes me feel good knowing that there’s one less fly in the world. I mean in all honesty, how much effort would it have taken Noah to swat a couple on the ark and eradicate the entire existence of flies? Not much probably.
I digress. I moved to Mississippi after spending 22 years in Alabama. To most people, that move would be a downgrade. After all, if Alabama is the heart of Dixie, Mississippi is the armpit of Dixie, geographically speaking. I admit, Mississippi is not everyone’s cup of tea, and for that fact, I am glad. I love people, but I love space, too. I catapulted myself to the Washington D.C. Metro area after a few years in the armpit. Please, ask me about culture shock. Moving from Mississippi to Washington DC provides a shock like what you feel when you fall for the “Hey, can you grab the electric fence to make sure it’s still on?” trick. I learned invaluable lessons; the kind of lessons that never leave you, similar to the ones you learn after you touch a hot stove, roll your eyes at your Dad, or forget to put baking powder in biscuits. Some lessons you can’t forget no matter how hard you try, for better or for worse.
This is where the TV show comes back into this conversation. The show highlights the fact that Southerners genuinely care about each other, they smile at whoever they pass on the sidewalk, and they always initiate grocery store checkout line conversations about the weather or college football. Living near D.C., a geographical area that is home to 6-ish million people, means that people become desensitized to other people. No one smiles at strangers. Everything seems to be created with the intention of minimizing the chance that a human must interact with another human. Self-checkouts rule the roost, ordering food from mobile apps is preferred because work can’t be done if you have to wait in line and swipe your credit card and say a 5-second hello to the Starbucks barista or fast-food cashier. I am sure there are pockets of hospitality and warmth, but for the life of me, I don’t know how you would go about finding them in a place like that. One last thing, and I know I’ve already suggested this, but no one smiles at strangers. Large metropolitan areas might be the most dynamic places where a young professional can climb the corporate ladder and learn to love the hustle and bustle and become well-versed on different wines and whiskeys, but, it’s not for me.
My happiest day was driving west on I-66 one horribly rainy and cold Saturday morning in November because it meant that I would soon be turning on I-81 in my favorite direction—South. Away from businesses that never close, away from business suits and shiny shoes, away from drivers who use the car horn to convey anger. I was going back toward a place where everything closes around 9, back to where Carharrt coveralls are the more popular workplace attire of choice, and the home of drivers who use the car horn to wave at someone across the intersection.
The week after that 12-hour drive from Washington D.C. to Alabama, I was walking downtown to the framing shop and was waiting to cross Main Street when a Dodge 2500 diesel truck with a slightly lopsided grill and some rust spots on the hood, came to a stop, honked and waved at me with a smile, so that I could walk across the road. I don’t know who he was and he didn’t know who I was, but he stopped traffic and smiled at stranger. Even though I am now in Oklahoma and technically not in the Deep South—even though the fried chicken isn’t as great and the accents aren’t as spectacular as home—people still smile at strangers and that’s good enough for me.
