Redneck Roots

Many of my friends know I was born in Chicago, but few know that when I was two years old, my family moved to a small town just south of Atlanta, Georgia. We lived in the area where Smokey and the Bandit was filmed, and about 30 miles west of where the Dukes of Hazard was filmed (our town had paved roads and more than two cops). The place was and still is called Morrow, although it looks nothing today like it did when I was a kid. My family moved to Buffalo, New York when I was ten—in 1987—and I’ve only been back to Morrow once since then. That was about eight years ago, and seeing the old neighborhood made me want to cry. All the forests and fields I where I used to play became freeways and low income housing projects. Our old family home was a wreck; the yard was overgrown, the shutters were falling off and the house itself was actually sagging in the middle. One look at it made me never want to return to that neighborhood again.

I never wanted to return to the South again, either. After moving to Buffalo, and later Pittsburgh and Chicago, I picked up the negative redneck stereotypes associated with Southerners. I would occasionally joke with people about living in Atlanta with the attitude of thank God I got out when I did, and I always made sure people knew I was born in Chicago. Often, I just left out the Atlanta part altogether when asked about my past (especially in my high school, where redneck jokes could get physical). Not many of my family or friends know how much speech therapy I went through to learn to speak like a Yankee. It wasn’t so much that I had a southern accent as it was that I slurred my speech so heavily that I sounded like Boomhauer on King of the Hill (click here if you don't know the reference). I did have a southern accent growing up, but it faded before it became permanent, leaving me only with a strong southern slur. In the south, people understood that slur just fine. Not so up north.

In the past few years, I’ve started feeling guilty for shunning my Southern past. Part of my reason for wanting to come to a farm in the Deep South was to find some kind of acceptance with that part of my life, or at least to prove to myself I wasn’t ashamed or afraid of it. There’s a concept of Southern Pride that Northerners and West Coasties just don’t understand. It isn’t a cocky or snobby concept, like Vernmontians who look down on neighbors if they aren’t fifth-generation New Englanders. It’s more of an idea of holding your head high and refusing to hide your roots, despite whatever negative connotations may or may not be tied to them. It’s about accepting who you are and where you came from—the good with the bad—instead of trying to hide it.

So, yeah, I have some guilt for throwing my Southern Pride out the window. For a long time, I tried to forget that I didn’t say simply “what?” but “say what?” as a question. I never would have told a girlfriend that my mom called us kids in for supper by ringing a huge cast iron triangle from the back porch, or that grits and cornbread were staples in our diet. And there is no way I would let my classmates in Pittsburgh—Pirates territory—know that my favorite pastime as a kid was going to Fulton County Stadium see Braves games and cheering for Dale Murphy and Bob Horner (this was back when the mascot was a man dressed as an Indian who welcomed kids into a tipi above the dugout). Today, it seems ridiculous to be ashamed of these things, but they were a bigger deal when peer pressure and bullies were involved.

While I’m on the subject, I have to add that the stereotypes of redneck racism always bothered me. Sure, you still have race issues in the South, but I think it’s pretty pompous for Northerners to look down on alleged rednecks for that. Even as a kid in the Northern states, I noticed a big difference there: the North is far more segregated. Southern states do have separate white and black neighborhoods, but you see a lot more integration in schools, businesses and social outings. Northerners seem to think they don’t have the race issues of the South, but they often have never had to deal with that integration. It’s easy to think you’re immune to racism when 99% of the people in your life are white. Being friendly to your one black coworker doesn’t prove shit.

We did have some racial conflicts in Morrow. A black family once moved into our white neighborhood and they had a boy named Kenya who was the same age as my older brother. Once, a white kid up the street got into a heated argument with Kenya and told him he was made out of chocolate. Kenya retaliated by saying “Oh yeah? Well you’re made of vanilla!” The white kid ran home in tears.

That black family moved away a few months later. I never knew why as a child, but when I grew older I learned from my parents that someone burned a cross on their lawn… among other things.

So this blog entry is more of a rant than an update. Here I am, back in the Deep South at last. I didn’t feel obliged to go all the way to Georgia to explore my Southern roots; Mississippi seemed far enough, and so far it’s delivered. The trees, the kudzu, the humidity and the architecture are all very nostalgic, as are the people (there is definitely something to be said for Southern hospitality). I can’t say I’ve had any great revelations or found a mystic peace of mind from coming here. I can’t even say that I feel I belong here—Chicago is still the only place I’ve lived where I didn’t feel like an outsider. Being back in the South has, however, sparked many memories that I worked hard to forget in my younger years. And in the end, memories are all you have left.