Riding into the sunset

I am becoming disturbingly aware of a Southern writer coming to life in my head. It took me long enough to consider myself heading towards authorship in the first place, but to consider the Southerness of it all...? How appalling to find myself looking at the backward designs of my past and seeing there a burnished array of stunning characters and beautiful backdrops.

As a child, I practiced the leaving of the South in every way. I carefully eradicated the Texan accent and vocabulary, patterning my own on a hodgepodge of indie British and American (Northern of course) films and books. Still, I was left with the supremely embarrassing "i" sound instead of "eh" in words like "pen" versus "pin" (there being no distinction in most of the South by the way), and the-A-tur instead of theatre (spelled in the British way so you may hear it with the proper British pronunciation in your head). Until college, I was blithely unaware of these important and elusive details. Two of the first friends I made at this Midwestern university introduced themselves as Jenny and Jenny. There followed a discussion in the group that was, at the time, completely befuddling. Another girl asked one of the two if she was Jenny or Jenny, to which the girl replied (as if the question was not completely absurd), "I'm Jenny." The other girl threw in what I thought must be either redundant or a joke, "Well, I'm Jenny." At this point in the conversation, I thought my then sleep-deprived mind might be causing me to hallucinate, since no one seemed to think there was anything amiss at hand. Finally, I had to risk the embarrassment of playing my usual role of gullible punchline to ask what they were all talking about. After some discussion, they finally ascertained the root of my confusion and spent the next month training this verbal Texas dangler out of my system. You will be happy to know that Jenny and Ginnie soon became distinguished as the two separately named beings that they were.

I tried to find spatial distance as soon as possible as well. At the age of eleven, I was already spending weeks at a time away from home, going to summer camp in Colorado. When I was fourteen, I went to a music camp in Pensecola, Florida (a story that I have yet to find adequate words for...if you know anything about the underground system of ultra-conservative educational systems, you may guess why) where I learned about Interlochen in Michigan. Of course, I simply had to go there and did the following year. Hands down, the summer spent in Northern Michigan with musicians and artists my age spouting such non-Southern refinement and class was by far the most formative and home-distancing experience of my life. I was certain after the intense molding of those weeks that I would never settle for Texas again.

And, with brief retreats from the North here and there, I didn't for over a decade.

Now, I certainly do not regret any of the experiences I have had away from my childhood stomping grounds (with the glaring exception of three miserable years in the bumhole of Oklahoma). I have truly loved each place I have experienced and miss each one as a home to some piece of me. As such, it is more than surprising to find myself so grateful to return here. This homecoming has found me receptive to the iconic lifestyle and characters of Deep East Texas in a way I did not believe myself capable of. The distance and time I so intentionally put between myself and this place has brought me back here with the sparkling eyes of a stranger. Where I used to see simpleminded misogyny in the cowboy caricatures so prevalent here, I have begun to see a certain charming naivety. The symbols they use (holding the door for the "ladies" for example) are generally well-meant and kind. They hold back no respect as I have worked toe-to-toe with them in the arena of manual labor. Still, at the end of the sweat-drenching, back-breaking day, that door is going to be held open for me and I am slowly learning to accept it with the same grace with which it is offered.

Likewise, I am finding the vernacular comforting and comfortable on my tongue and pleasant to listen to. It is remarkable to me that such a thing as an accent can exist in our globalized society, and it is reassuring in its distinctiveness. I love that I can feel the slow gathering of half-finished syllables as opposed to the nasal blend of the Midwest. Neither is superior, but it is a great relief to abandon my childhood dogma that said otherwise.

There may still be all the things I loved to hate about this place when I was younger, but for the first time I can see the loveliness and say without embarrassment that it is good to be home.