Life in a Southern Town

Recently, at a rehearsal for an upcoming concert of Händel's Messiah, I engaged in a brief but very friendly introductory banter with a woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties. She was warm, friendly, and very southern in her lil-darlin' approach, and I was warm, friendly and candid in my warm yankee return.

She asked me if I was a student at the university. (We rehearse in a music room on the campus, as our director is also the choral director there.) I answered that no, I was actually a faculty member. She thought I was too young to be a faculty member and added that if I wasn't careful some young local girl was gonna snatch me up 'cause I was so good-looking.

I informed her that that was highly unlikely as I was gay.

Without batting an eyelash, but with the smile noticeably less bright on her lips, she said, "You're not from around here, are you?"

I believe her response sums up better than any example could the way southerners think: in order to be from here or live here with even a modicum of success, one must hide everything novel, odd, out of the ordinary, or anything that might approach the appearance of impropriety. In other words: hide everything that will give the neighbours something to talk about.

This also sums up why I hate the South so ardently. Oh, it's a lovely place. Lovely trees. Lovely scenery. Lovely homes. It's really just the people I hate.

And the mosquitoes.