Just saw a letter to one of my favorite advice columnists, Dear Prudence, at Slate Magazine, from a family who moved from a liberal Northeastern enclave to a small Southern town and found themselves in hot water with their neighbors when they protested their daughter's elementary school teacher's practice of leading the class in a lengthy prayer before lunch every day. Now, contrary to what a lot of people think, the Supreme Court has never outlawed prayer in public schools (ask any student about to take an AP Calculus exam); it's sectarian prayers ("in Jesus' name," for example, or "there is only one God, and Mohammed is his prophet") that has been found unconstitutional. I imagine that's what this teacher was doing, because when the parents protested, the prayers stopped. And now they're getting the cold shoulder. Prudence sympathized with how "distressing" it must be to live in a place where there is so little religious tolerance.
And I say, it's not distressing; it's the authentic, gen-u-wine Southern experience this family has encountered. You have not lived in the South until you have been told you are going to hell. I grew up being told I was going to hell every Sunday, and this was usually accompanied by a fairly vivid description of what hell looked like: a lake of fire, as I recall, and no lifeguard in sight. The Deep South is--or used to be until very recently, and still is in a lot of places--a region of great religious uniformity: evangelical Christian, from the Blue Ridge down to the Gulf Coast. There are a whole bunch of reasons for this which I won't bore anybody with, but as the letter-writer to Dear Prudence is discovering, being an outlier of any kind in that environment is a fascinating cultural experience. (I knew a Jewish woman once who was told by her playmates in south Georgia that John the Baptist was, in fact, the First Baptist. Needless to say, she was told she was going to hell, too.) For a couple hundred years now, evangelical Christianity has informed every aspect of Southern life, from its politics to its architecture. I was in college at Emory before I realized that the folks who invented the Ionic column were the ancient Greeks and not the folks who built all those Baptist churches. Southerners take their religion seriously: as I write, Georgia has just passed a law that allows people to carry their guns into church, among other places. My Southern friends on Facebook have been talking about this, and when one person asked why on earth anybody would want to carry a gun to church, I proposed that it was in case there might be some doctrinal dispute over, say, First Ephesians--whereupon I was immediately corrected by another Southern friend that there is only ONE Ephesians in the Bible, whereupon that person was immediately corrected by my brother-in-law, who wrote that there was only one Ephesians ever since the great Hahira Baptist shootout of 1859, when Second Ephesians when down with its defenders in a blaze of gunfire.
So my advice to the family from the liberal northeastern enclave would be: chill out. For a Southerner, sending other people to hell, or being advised to go there himself, is just another day in the life. Besides, you're going to get a much more interesting level of conversation in hell than you'd get in heaven, since most of the folks there will be Southerners. See you there!
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Monday, March 10, 2014
Southerners and Being Gay
The Atlantic Monthly has taken note of what it considers a "stunning" fact--i.e., that "contrary to what one might expect, today Texans and Southerners are evenly divided on the issue of same sex marriage--as opposed to being ready to lynch them, which is the attitude I guess the writer assumes most Southerners would have.
Well, DUH. Southerners have always been hospitable to, and tolerant of, gay people. We're talking about the region that has given the world this guy
and this guy
and THIS guy
and this lady
and this lady 
...
....who are, in order, Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams and James Baldwin (and yes, I know he was born in the Bronx and grew up in New York City, but we're talking about the grandson of slaves and a writer whose whole career was focused on the problem of race, especially in the South, so I'm counting him as a kind of honorary Southerner)...and then there's Lillian Smith and Moms Mabley, bona fide Southern ladies both, and both of them women who loved women.
I could go on, but you get my drift.
Southerners have always known about gay people, and we have always been perfectly happy to live with them--provided they were willing to be discreet about their sexuality. As a child, I remember my parents having a certain "Uncle Millard" over for dinner fairly often. Uncle Millard was a "confirmed bachelor," my mother explained (I was too young then to know what that euphemism meant) and my dad would invite him home for some of my mom's cooking when Uncle Millard started to look starved (this was back gender roles were so rigidly divided that few men, even gay men, knew their way around a kitchen). Uncle Millard was later murdered by one of his lovers, and who knows how much pressure they both lived under, in a time and place where it was okay to be a "confirmed bachelor" as long as you pretended to like women and did not appear in public with the person you loved? Couldn't be good for one's mental health.
And how many youth ministers or preacher's kids did we all know growing up who white-knuckled their way through adolescence trying to appear to be someone they were not, and not fooling a soul? I remember a friend from high school who told her mom she was going somewhere with a guy we both knew, and her mom said, "Oh, ______! Well, you'll be safe with him." We all thought that was hilarious at the time, and everybody knew what it meant, but nobody talked about it. We were too polite for that.
And I'll never forget the high school classmate who was so clearly, so obviously gay, and almost willing to be "out" about it even back in the 1970s, who was so brilliant and so much fun to be around, and whose father was determined to send him away to college at The Citadel, where he would "learn to be a man." We all knew that our friend was doomed to get the living crap beat out of him there at the very least, and I remember the sudden silence when he told us this. But again, nobody said what we were all thinking. Too polite.
So Southerners have always been totally comfortable with gay people, and very tolerant--as long as nobody ever said what everybody knew. In that respect, The Atlantic Monthly is about a hundred years behind the curve--and demonstrating, once again, that what everybody "knows" about the South is often warped by stereotypes. One thing, however, really may be changing: all us older straight folks who grew up in those years may finally be unlearning the hypocrisy we were taught as kids.
Well, DUH. Southerners have always been hospitable to, and tolerant of, gay people. We're talking about the region that has given the world this guy
and this guy
and THIS guyand this lady
and this lady ...
....who are, in order, Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams and James Baldwin (and yes, I know he was born in the Bronx and grew up in New York City, but we're talking about the grandson of slaves and a writer whose whole career was focused on the problem of race, especially in the South, so I'm counting him as a kind of honorary Southerner)...and then there's Lillian Smith and Moms Mabley, bona fide Southern ladies both, and both of them women who loved women.
I could go on, but you get my drift.
Southerners have always known about gay people, and we have always been perfectly happy to live with them--provided they were willing to be discreet about their sexuality. As a child, I remember my parents having a certain "Uncle Millard" over for dinner fairly often. Uncle Millard was a "confirmed bachelor," my mother explained (I was too young then to know what that euphemism meant) and my dad would invite him home for some of my mom's cooking when Uncle Millard started to look starved (this was back gender roles were so rigidly divided that few men, even gay men, knew their way around a kitchen). Uncle Millard was later murdered by one of his lovers, and who knows how much pressure they both lived under, in a time and place where it was okay to be a "confirmed bachelor" as long as you pretended to like women and did not appear in public with the person you loved? Couldn't be good for one's mental health.
And how many youth ministers or preacher's kids did we all know growing up who white-knuckled their way through adolescence trying to appear to be someone they were not, and not fooling a soul? I remember a friend from high school who told her mom she was going somewhere with a guy we both knew, and her mom said, "Oh, ______! Well, you'll be safe with him." We all thought that was hilarious at the time, and everybody knew what it meant, but nobody talked about it. We were too polite for that.
And I'll never forget the high school classmate who was so clearly, so obviously gay, and almost willing to be "out" about it even back in the 1970s, who was so brilliant and so much fun to be around, and whose father was determined to send him away to college at The Citadel, where he would "learn to be a man." We all knew that our friend was doomed to get the living crap beat out of him there at the very least, and I remember the sudden silence when he told us this. But again, nobody said what we were all thinking. Too polite.
So Southerners have always been totally comfortable with gay people, and very tolerant--as long as nobody ever said what everybody knew. In that respect, The Atlantic Monthly is about a hundred years behind the curve--and demonstrating, once again, that what everybody "knows" about the South is often warped by stereotypes. One thing, however, really may be changing: all us older straight folks who grew up in those years may finally be unlearning the hypocrisy we were taught as kids.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Snow 101 for Southerners
As a person born and raised in the South who has been known to try to dig a car out of serious snow armed with nothing more than a metal kitchen spatula, I am the last to proclaim my expertise on winter weather. When it gets icy around here, I walk like an 80-year-old lady with a glass hip. I have been known to fall down stepping outside to get the newspaper. On more than one occasion I have gone skating with an enthusiastic beagle on the end of the leash--on my butt, and not by plan. So I offer these elementary survival skills to people currently living in the Deep South not as an expert, then, but as advice for my fellow Southerners who may be similarly weather-impaired. Hunker down, chilluns, and learn:
1. If by some chance you do find yourself behind the wheel driving on an icy surface, repeat these words: "I am skiing with my car!" It sounds weird, I know, but it gives you a certain jaunty insouciance when things start to go sideways--and believe me, that's the attitude of Yankee drivers who grew up driving on this stuff. "Oh, lookit that 18-wheeler go! Hey, did you watch the game last night?" Amateurs panic; seasoned snow drivers just enjoy the passing view. Jesus, take the wheel!
2. This is a 36- to 48-hour weather event, not the siege of Stalingrad. Southerners tend to get excited about snow, and in that excited state we are apt to start running around like chickens. Believe it or not, you will see your loved ones again, and chances are excellent that you have enough toilet paper to last two days. Leave the roads to those poor schmucks who absolutely have to be out there.
3. Essential tools: windshield scraper. Kitty litter or de-icer. Gloves. Car charger for your cellphone. Smartphone app for the insurance company. A pocket flask of Jack Daniels is a nice extra.
4. When the icy Armageddon has passed and you emerge from your cozy storm lair, clean off the top of your car. If it's snow, it will create a mini-blizzard once you get on the freeway, blinding the guy behind you--and if it's melted and then re-frozen, it either shakes loose in little shards, like shrapnel, or comes off in one big whoosh like a sheet of plate glass. This seems like a no-brainer to people who are used to this stuff, but not to residents of the Deep South who rarely encounter snow. A Deep South expatriate, I drove around obliviously spreading winter cheer every couple hundred feet for a couple of seasons before it was, ahem, forcefully explained to me that I was putting myself at risk of becoming a victim of justifiable homicide.
Finally, take pictures. Your great-grandchildren may want to see them someday: climatologists are saying that if global warming continues at its present rate, in 100 years ours may be a world without snow.
1. If by some chance you do find yourself behind the wheel driving on an icy surface, repeat these words: "I am skiing with my car!" It sounds weird, I know, but it gives you a certain jaunty insouciance when things start to go sideways--and believe me, that's the attitude of Yankee drivers who grew up driving on this stuff. "Oh, lookit that 18-wheeler go! Hey, did you watch the game last night?" Amateurs panic; seasoned snow drivers just enjoy the passing view. Jesus, take the wheel!
2. This is a 36- to 48-hour weather event, not the siege of Stalingrad. Southerners tend to get excited about snow, and in that excited state we are apt to start running around like chickens. Believe it or not, you will see your loved ones again, and chances are excellent that you have enough toilet paper to last two days. Leave the roads to those poor schmucks who absolutely have to be out there.
3. Essential tools: windshield scraper. Kitty litter or de-icer. Gloves. Car charger for your cellphone. Smartphone app for the insurance company. A pocket flask of Jack Daniels is a nice extra.
4. When the icy Armageddon has passed and you emerge from your cozy storm lair, clean off the top of your car. If it's snow, it will create a mini-blizzard once you get on the freeway, blinding the guy behind you--and if it's melted and then re-frozen, it either shakes loose in little shards, like shrapnel, or comes off in one big whoosh like a sheet of plate glass. This seems like a no-brainer to people who are used to this stuff, but not to residents of the Deep South who rarely encounter snow. A Deep South expatriate, I drove around obliviously spreading winter cheer every couple hundred feet for a couple of seasons before it was, ahem, forcefully explained to me that I was putting myself at risk of becoming a victim of justifiable homicide.
Finally, take pictures. Your great-grandchildren may want to see them someday: climatologists are saying that if global warming continues at its present rate, in 100 years ours may be a world without snow.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
In Which the Scales Fall (Literally) From the Author's Eyes
Of late I have been noticing that a) my memory is not what it used to be and b) it was getting a whole lot harder to see. For a journalist, this is the old one-two punch: you squint to see where it is you parked the car, and then you have to think hard to remember what car you're driving these days. The memory thing I guess I can chalk up to Middle Age Brain, and I'm told that things actually improve after all the raging hormonal tides have ebbed, but the vision thing had to be dealt with, so I went to the eye doc. "Bad news," he said. "You are now so nearsighted that they don't make contact lens strong enough for you." (For vision wonks, we're talking about a minus 12 diopter; most nearsighted folks are a minus 6 or 7. For all you Spinal Tap fans, my vision impairment goes past 11.) "The good news," he continued, "is you have cataracts." Exactly how was this good news? "It means you can have cataract surgery and we can cure your nearsightedness." For a moment I thought I had misheard him. Cure, you said? "Cure," he said. This took a moment to sink in; then the next logical question occurred: Well, why the hell didn't you tell me this years ago? "Because contact lens are a lot less expensive way to fix your vision than surgery," he said, "and Blue Cross wouldn't have paid for it."
Well, Blue Cross still doesn't completely pay for it, as it turns out. There are three levels of cataract surgery, and most insurers only cover what I will call the Honda Civic version. For me, that would have meant fixing my cataracts and my nearsightedness, but leaving me with my astigmatism, meaning I would still need contact lens/glasses for distance, plus reading glasses for near vision. Level Two, the Lexus version, cost an extra $1,900 per eye; that would correct my nearsightedness and the astigmatism. Level Three, the Mercedes Benz version, would do the whole shebang: it would correct my nearsightedness and my astigmatism and give me bifocal vision so that I would never need reading glasses, for a mere $2,900 per eye out of pocket.
On reflection, Level One seemed like a penny-wise, pound-foolish approach: undergo surgery but still need glasses? For the birds. Level Three seemed like a thrilling deal, until I thought about it. Problems with near vision (called "presbyopia") affect nearly everybody as we age, because the tiny little muscles in the iris that help change the eye's focus from distance to close vision age just like everything else, and get stiff and creaky. I asked the doctor: suppose I shelled out for those $2,900-per-eye set of new eyeballs--wouldn't those new lens still be at the service of those same old creaky eye muscles I have now? "Yeeessss," he allowed, with a small smile. "Which is why I don't always recommend that option to my patients. I don't really think they work all that well." Now he tells me. (Further proof that when it comes to health care in this country, the only traditional capitalist theory that applies is the Law of Caveat Emptor.)
Actually, the doc is a nice man, very kind, and on surgery day, when I was so nervous that my blood pressure was galloping way above the 100 level, he talked me through the whole thing. Well, almost the whole thing; for a crucial part of the festivities, I remember somebody mentioning I was about to get dose of something called Versed, and then it was nighty-night.
Now, two days later, I have a slightly swollen right eye that has perfect 20-20 vision--something I have not had since the day I exited my mother's womb. Got my astigmatism fixed, on the installment plan. ("If we don't pay," my husband asked, "do they come repossess your eyeball?") Colors look brighter. I see individual branches in trees two blocks away. The past two evenings, the winter sunsets have been glorious. In a week and a half, I get the other eye done. I cannot wait for the next warm, clear night, when I'm going to take a blanket outside, lie down on the lawn and look at the stars.
Well, Blue Cross still doesn't completely pay for it, as it turns out. There are three levels of cataract surgery, and most insurers only cover what I will call the Honda Civic version. For me, that would have meant fixing my cataracts and my nearsightedness, but leaving me with my astigmatism, meaning I would still need contact lens/glasses for distance, plus reading glasses for near vision. Level Two, the Lexus version, cost an extra $1,900 per eye; that would correct my nearsightedness and the astigmatism. Level Three, the Mercedes Benz version, would do the whole shebang: it would correct my nearsightedness and my astigmatism and give me bifocal vision so that I would never need reading glasses, for a mere $2,900 per eye out of pocket.
On reflection, Level One seemed like a penny-wise, pound-foolish approach: undergo surgery but still need glasses? For the birds. Level Three seemed like a thrilling deal, until I thought about it. Problems with near vision (called "presbyopia") affect nearly everybody as we age, because the tiny little muscles in the iris that help change the eye's focus from distance to close vision age just like everything else, and get stiff and creaky. I asked the doctor: suppose I shelled out for those $2,900-per-eye set of new eyeballs--wouldn't those new lens still be at the service of those same old creaky eye muscles I have now? "Yeeessss," he allowed, with a small smile. "Which is why I don't always recommend that option to my patients. I don't really think they work all that well." Now he tells me. (Further proof that when it comes to health care in this country, the only traditional capitalist theory that applies is the Law of Caveat Emptor.)
Actually, the doc is a nice man, very kind, and on surgery day, when I was so nervous that my blood pressure was galloping way above the 100 level, he talked me through the whole thing. Well, almost the whole thing; for a crucial part of the festivities, I remember somebody mentioning I was about to get dose of something called Versed, and then it was nighty-night.
Now, two days later, I have a slightly swollen right eye that has perfect 20-20 vision--something I have not had since the day I exited my mother's womb. Got my astigmatism fixed, on the installment plan. ("If we don't pay," my husband asked, "do they come repossess your eyeball?") Colors look brighter. I see individual branches in trees two blocks away. The past two evenings, the winter sunsets have been glorious. In a week and a half, I get the other eye done. I cannot wait for the next warm, clear night, when I'm going to take a blanket outside, lie down on the lawn and look at the stars.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
How 'Bout Them Stadiums!
I've been college-shopping with my daughter, who is very interested in Sweet Briar, a women's college in Virginia. Sweet Briar has a well-known horseback riding program with some of the most luxurious barns I've ever seen, and so I asked the dumb question parents are supposed to ask: are students expected to bring their own horse? (Because my daughter doesn't have one.) No, I was told--and the admissions person added something I found very interesting: the college has a rule that if you do bring your horse, you are automatically disqualified from getting any kind of financial aid--the thinking being that any student who can afford to keep her own private horse on the grounds at school should be able to foot the tuition bill by herself.
At this point, I decided I really, really liked Sweet Briar.
What does this have to do with the Braves leaving Atlanta? The new stadium is going to be built in Cobb County (where a lot of Braves fans now live, according to this interesting graphic in the Washington Post), and it's going to cost $672 million. The owners--a bunch of rich guys who include billionaire Ted Turner--are putting up something like $200 million of their own money, with the rest to be paid for by--you guessed it--the taxpayers. But that's okay! Because apparently this new stadium will create so many jobs in its new location that everybody will benefit. This is the huge whopper trotted out every time some sports mogul wants to build another palace, and it's especially effective in Atlanta, a real sports town which has always been The City Too Busy to Hate Money. Of course, the vast majority of the jobs created will be low- to medium-wage service sector jobs (somebody has to serve all those tables and sweep up all those empty beer cans)--and it goes without saying that a lot of the people who really could use jobs like that will be hard-pressed to get to this new stadium, because Cobb County is not connected to Atlanta's rapid rail system, known as MARTA. Back in the 1970s, it voted not to participate in MARTA, because at the time it was a white enclave and everybody knew that MARTA stood for Moving Africans Rapidly OuT of Atlanta. Meanwhile, the vast majority of Braves fans will continue getting to the games in their cars, further clogging roads in one of the most congested regions of one of the most congested cities in America. And isn't it weird, how easy it seems to be for these guys who own sports teams to get these tax breaks--especially in a region like Atlanta, where the average teacher makes $52,000 a year? Oh well, who cares. Their kids go to private schools.
I'm not singling Atlanta out here. Washington, D.C. recently made the Washington Nationals a very sweet deal, and Prince George's County bent over--well, I started to say backward, but let's just say bent over--for Dan Snyder, owner of the Washington Redskins, so he'd build his new stadium there. The results are mixed: the Nationals ballpark is a great place and the surrounding area, formerly the Land of Blight, is indeed taking off--but it's two blocks from the nearest rapid rail station. Landover Field has made Dan Snyder a whole bunch of money, but it is nowhere near mass transit, and the only economic benefit to the surrounding neighborhoods is the kind you might realize with a bucket of soapy water and a squeegee. Wash your windshield, sir?
Two thoughts here. One: sports palaces without access to mass transit equal big money for fat cats and a rip off for the taxpayer. Two: taxpayers should demand that their government leaders adopt the Sweet Briar Rule: if you are rich enough to own a sports team, you are rich enough to pay for your own damn stadium.
CORRECTION: Ted Turner no longer owns any part of the Atlanta Braves. Today they are owned by Liberty Media, whose majority owner is some guy named John C. Malone.
At this point, I decided I really, really liked Sweet Briar.
What does this have to do with the Braves leaving Atlanta? The new stadium is going to be built in Cobb County (where a lot of Braves fans now live, according to this interesting graphic in the Washington Post), and it's going to cost $672 million. The owners--a bunch of rich guys who include billionaire Ted Turner--are putting up something like $200 million of their own money, with the rest to be paid for by--you guessed it--the taxpayers. But that's okay! Because apparently this new stadium will create so many jobs in its new location that everybody will benefit. This is the huge whopper trotted out every time some sports mogul wants to build another palace, and it's especially effective in Atlanta, a real sports town which has always been The City Too Busy to Hate Money. Of course, the vast majority of the jobs created will be low- to medium-wage service sector jobs (somebody has to serve all those tables and sweep up all those empty beer cans)--and it goes without saying that a lot of the people who really could use jobs like that will be hard-pressed to get to this new stadium, because Cobb County is not connected to Atlanta's rapid rail system, known as MARTA. Back in the 1970s, it voted not to participate in MARTA, because at the time it was a white enclave and everybody knew that MARTA stood for Moving Africans Rapidly OuT of Atlanta. Meanwhile, the vast majority of Braves fans will continue getting to the games in their cars, further clogging roads in one of the most congested regions of one of the most congested cities in America. And isn't it weird, how easy it seems to be for these guys who own sports teams to get these tax breaks--especially in a region like Atlanta, where the average teacher makes $52,000 a year? Oh well, who cares. Their kids go to private schools.
I'm not singling Atlanta out here. Washington, D.C. recently made the Washington Nationals a very sweet deal, and Prince George's County bent over--well, I started to say backward, but let's just say bent over--for Dan Snyder, owner of the Washington Redskins, so he'd build his new stadium there. The results are mixed: the Nationals ballpark is a great place and the surrounding area, formerly the Land of Blight, is indeed taking off--but it's two blocks from the nearest rapid rail station. Landover Field has made Dan Snyder a whole bunch of money, but it is nowhere near mass transit, and the only economic benefit to the surrounding neighborhoods is the kind you might realize with a bucket of soapy water and a squeegee. Wash your windshield, sir?
Two thoughts here. One: sports palaces without access to mass transit equal big money for fat cats and a rip off for the taxpayer. Two: taxpayers should demand that their government leaders adopt the Sweet Briar Rule: if you are rich enough to own a sports team, you are rich enough to pay for your own damn stadium.
CORRECTION: Ted Turner no longer owns any part of the Atlanta Braves. Today they are owned by Liberty Media, whose majority owner is some guy named John C. Malone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
