I have two sisters-in-law, but with both of them I leave off the "in-law" part and let it be at "sister." Even with three sisters in my family, God knew I needed these other two to round things out nicely. Every single one occupies a specific location in my heart, reserved just for her. Nobody crowded anyone else out or butted in. They all just slipped right in where they belonged. They are each of them so beautiful, and loving, and generally wonderful in every way. I admire them, and wish I was more like them. I wish I was more courageous, like the youngest one, and tender-hearted, like the one I gained through marrying my husband. I wish I had the lion-heart of my oldest sister, and the great ability not to say too much, like the sister I gained when she married my brother. And the one closest to me in age, my first (and former) frenemy, I wish I had her kindness, which runs as deep as a well. And also her skill with power tools. She is our daddy's daughter, in so many good ways. I think I got mostly his feisty-ness, and his nose. I don't mind.
My sisters are all great gift-givers. They give of themselves, of their time, of their hearts, A well-timed text from one of them can help me straighten out a really rotten day, or at least my rotten attitude. And when special occasions come around they give lovely, thoughtful, sometimes hilarious gifts. One of my favorites was the set of dryer balls that look like hedgehogs. Quirky and practical!
Last Christmas one of my sisters gave me a nice, comfy long-sleeved t-shirt with a Bible verse printed on the back. I really like it. She was kind enough to buy it in a really pretty coral color, which complements my complexion, and makes me feel a little bit pretty on days when I give in to the fact that I am a stay-at-home mom doing laundry all day, with no need to be glamorous. Her gifts are usually like that. Like the cute chip clips with sassy sayings printed on them, or the delicously scented bar of soap from a soapery. All of my soap comes from Target. But she's sweet like that. She takes a mundane thing and makes it special.
This t-shirt is from a popular line of clothing that celebrates the dual desire for femininity and comfort, as well as the region of the country that I live in. Aren't t-shirts amazing, that they can do all of that? And I really love wearing this t-shirt. I wash it and hang it up to dry, instead of letting it roll around in the dryer with my socks, because I have arms as long as a gorilla and I hate it when my sleeves are too short. But this shirt. It's got me thinking, What does it really mean to be Southern?
Any person, no matter where they came from or where they live now, can wear a shirt with a location printed down the sleeve like a tattoo and pretend that it makes them belong there. But that just isn't true. I can wear a shirt that says "I Love NY" and all it means is that I probably got hustled by a street vendor. I wear this gifted shirt, and I love it, but it doesn't make me Southern. So what does?
Is it my accent, which waxes and wanes in intensity depending on my company? Put me on the phone with my nanny and I'll prove it to you. She has the most beautiful Southern accent, and anybody that speaks even remotely like her makes me feel comfortable and safe and homesick all at once. I hope I talk like that when I grow up.
Is it how I like my tea which, contrary to what I order most of the time, is thickly, richly sweet? My mom and grandmother are champion brewers and sweeteners of tea. I've drunk gallons of it, and still I want more. A true Sunday dinner of beef pot roast with carrots, potatoes, rolls, and gravy is not complete without sweet tea. Nor any other meal, except breakfast, for that matter. I wonder if tea could be considered a vegetable, since it is the product of leaves?
Or maybe it's the fact that I eat grits. And fried green tomatoes. On purpose. Or the fact that "y'all" is permanently lodged in my vocabulary, as well as plenty of other Frankenstein-ian creations of this Southern English language. But that's a whole n'other blog post.
I really don't know what makes me or anybody else Southern, other than being from here, mostly because I've never lived or spent much time outside of the South, so I don't even know what different looks like. Or sounds like. Or tastes like. We even fry the sushi here, y'all.
Southern, for me, is just being. It's going about my life, talking the way the words come out of my mouth, eating food the way it tastes good to me, and wishing I had sweet tea when I usually just drink water. Southern can't be commercialized or sold, no matter what that shirt says. Anybody can wear a shirt and be a faker. It takes a real Southerner to sit there at your grandmother's kitchen table with a glass of sweet tea that is mostly just sugar, talking about everybody you know and saying "Bless their heart" frequently enough to remind each other, and yourself, that you aren't really gossiping. You're just catching up with your grandma.
If that ain't Southern, I don't know what is.
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