Cityfied

The summer I turned 12 years old, some members of my stepfather's extended family came down from Washington, D.C. to visit for a few weeks. A few of them consistently complained the entire time about the lack of things to do in our town and the surrounding area. There was no argument from me… there wasn't a whole lot to do… which was a contributing factor to why I read all the time. The closest movie theater was about a 45 minute drive away. And that wasn't happening for them either… since only one of them could drive, which amazed me… in SC, you get your license at 15 because nothing is in walking distance. The first couple of times they said something, I agreed. However, they soon complained to the point that it began to annoy me. It was all they talked about every day, every hour of the day. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. Being a country girl, I was a little irked at these big city folks making fun of my town and I started to get a little defensive… sure, there really wasn't much for them to do, but we still found ways to have fun. Looking back, I wouldn't change my childhood for the world. Still, a few months later, when we made the trek to D.C. to stay for a week during the holidays, I was ready to experience life in a big city. They had complained so much that I was sure my time in D.C. would be spent in a social whirlwind. We'd spend days at the Smithsonian, maybe get tickets to a play or a concert. In the very least, I was sure we'd go to a theater and catch a movie. I was wrong. Do you know they did every day? They played bingo. Bingo. They would wake up and eat… pass out the cards, the chips and then proceed to play for hours until… well, until they went to sleep. They would take the occasional break to watch a movie or talk show on television. I am not exaggerating. Okay, maybe a little. Every now and then, they'd also stop playing bingo to play a card game… Tunk, I think. I couldn't believe it. These were the same people who incessantly complained about nothing to do down South and they spent hours every day… playing bingo?! I'd never known anyone younger than 50 who played bingo. The only people I knew who played bingo were retired or on disability, arose at around 11, got their hair permed (the tight rod curly perm), had huge bags full of yarn and other knitting materials and probably dipped snuff or chewed tobacco while setting up their 10 plus bingo cards in front of them. Most of the cousins were only a few years older than I was, the youngest was maybe 16 and the oldest was probably close to 30 at the time. So, I laughed… I laughed long and hard after maybe the third day of witnessing exactly how much there was to do in that household. I'm sure they thought the country cousin had gone insane… but I couldn't help it. If all they wanted to do was play bingo… we could have bought them some damn cards… I mean… we DID have a Wal-Mart. I was also not impressed by the homeless people we tripped over constantly when we walked down the block (only to the corner store… that was the extent of my social whirlwind), the ginormous rats that lurked around every trash can (being the country cousin, I naively asked why the cat was trying to jump into the garbage and screamed when they told me what it really was) or the fact that I had to put on ten layers of clothing just to survive walking to said corner store. Now that I live in Charlotte, a much bigger city than the town I was raised in… I wonder sometimes when I hear the same complaints I heard back when I was living in a small town in South Carolina. Most of the time, it's the same people, the same song, the verses of which are as follows, "There's no culture here." "There's no art." "People in Charlotte don't appreciate things that are different." "There's never anything to do." And I laugh at them, too. I laugh at them even harder because it just goes to show how lazy people can be. Some of them moved here from larger cities, some of them didn't. Either way, I'm not impressed… It was in Charlotte that I stood in front of a Picasso. It was in Charlotte that I saw Arturo Sandoval playing his trumpet in the aisles. It was a theatre in Charlotte that brought a performance of my favorite opera Turandot. It was in Charlotte that I met one of my favorite authors. I'm not saying it's the most cultured place in the country… far from it. I know there are places where things that happen here once a month or once a year happen weekly or even daily. However, I'm a bright side sort of gal and there are a lot, a LOT of places that are FAR, FAR worse. Just drive out of Charlotte in any direction for about 30 miles and you're bound to hit one of them. I've come to learn that there are some arguments that aren't worth arguing… if people want to believe there's nothing to do here… let them. It's THEIR loss, THEIR boredom, THEIR laziness. My response to people who say this to me is one word, "Move." Or if I'm feeling nicer, perhaps a choice, "Move or do something about it." When I saw the Picasso, the director of the museum didn't drive it to my house, put it on my porch and unveil it before me… I actually had to find out where it was, drive there, get a ticket and walk upstairs to the exhibit. Shocking. I also realize that some people are just THOSE people… you know, the kind of people who could live next to MoMA and complain about the lack of culture. Life, to me, is about a collection of experiences. I'm all about not knocking what you haven't tried (within reason, of course). I like to try things that are regionally or culturally indigenous… and I use that term loosely, meaning if there is a restaurant that is renowned that only exists in the place you live, maybe you should try it, at least once. Also, if you find yourself sitting around bored on any evening, ask me or anyone else who is in tune with the local happenings… the Internet has made that a lot easier and I tend to keep a social calendar in my head. What it all boils down to is this, as one of my friends put it, "People who actually want to do things are never bored." My reply, "Bingo."

I got to see Arturo live, in Charlotte of all places... and since Dizzy is from my hometown of Cheraw, SC... view at your pleasure.

Farewell

Three weeks ago, within four days of each other, my favorite aunt died, Michael Jackson died and I turned 30.

It was a week that for me was horrific, unfathomable, heart-wrenching and beautiful all at the same time. It is hard for me to write about. I have been trying unsuccessfully for the past couple of weeks, but I feel I have all of my thoughts together now.

I had just gotten in from seeing a midnight showing of Transformers 2 when my mother called me from Fayetteville at a little past 3 a.m. on Wednesday morning. She informed me that her sister, my auntie Debbie, had passed away a few minutes before. We had known for a few days that it was coming. She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in February and had gotten extremely sick that weekend. The doctors had said that Sunday that she would only have a few more days and I had gone that day to say good-bye. She was asleep most of the time I was there and smiling and I wanted to remember her like that. So when my mother called, it was a call I was expecting and yet I was still unprepared. For those who don't know me well, my way of dealing with grief is to continue about my daily affairs as much as I can, crying the whole time. Mostly, when I'm alone... I hate crying in front of people. But if I don't distract myself, if I stay alone or am around other people who are also grieving, it's infinitely worse. So I woke up in the morning, brushed my teeth and cried. I cried in the shower, while doing my hair and while getting dressed. I had to buy some shoes for a birthday party I was having that night. In the car, all the way to the shoe store, I cried. When I got to the shoe store parking lot, I took off my sunglasses, wiped off my face and went inside and purchased some shoes. Then I got back in the car and cried some more. Despite the sadness that I was feeling over my aunt's passing, I ended up having a fantastic time at that party. My friends were there and that made the night for me… unbeknownst to most of them, they were keeping me distracted and I needed that so badly. The party ended up being a huge success…

On Thursday, my mother informed me that my aunt's funeral was going to be on Saturday, which was my actual birthday. Lovely. For about five minutes, I had several selfish thoughts and then I got over it. I didn't want my birthday to be forever associated with the extreme sadness of her death, but somehow it being scheduled on my birthday ended up working out for the best in a strange way… Then, that afternoon, Michael Jackson died. I couldn't believe it. Michael Jackson was MICHAEL JACKSON. Almost everyone I know has Michael Jackson stories and I am no different… he was the first "boy" I ever had a crush on (it was the Human Nature album cover that did it), the first song anyone remembers me dancing to was "I Want You Back" by the Jackson Five when I was two years old and when I was four years old, I once woke my mother up at 6 a.m. because Michael Jackson was going to be on "Monica Merica" (actually, he was on Good Morning, America… but I couldn't pronounce all of that). "I Wanna Be Where You Are" has always been one of my favorite songs. In fact, Jackson Five songs and solo MJ songs have been a part of the soundtrack of my life (for a lot of people, this is the case)… so, his passing is still pretty unbelievable… so with all these things going 'round my head, Friday was spent finding a dress for my aunt's funeral, running errands for my actual birthday and trying to stay occupied.

On Saturday morning, I woke up early and drove to SC, crying all the way there. I got to my grandfather's house and all of us got dressed and drove to the funeral home. I was okay for the most party until they passed out the obituaries… and then I lost it… I cried straight through the next three hours nonstop. Seeing her face on the cover was something I could not accept.

Let me tell you some things about my aunt Debbie. In addition to being my mother's sister, she was her best friend. My mother had eight other sisters, but she and Debbie were only about a year and a half apart. I don't remember them ever fighting. They sounded so much alike if I picked up the phone and they were talking, I could not tell which one was my mom's voice. They were so close, my auntie postponed college for a year so she could wait for my mom and they could start as freshmen at the same time. She was always like that, just such a giving, supportive person. She had asked me to go with her to her first round of chemo treatments and I remember by the third one, when we would walk in, she would go over and say hello to everyone and ask them how they were doing that day. Before she had her only child, I was hers. I would spend weeks at my aunt and uncle's house. I actually went with her to her Lamaze classes when she was pregnant. I don't remember why I was the one that went with her because I was only about 9 years old, but I did. They gave me a doll to play with. She was also hilarious and she, my mother and I would spend hours cracking ourselves up. The story we always told the most was when we were at a religious service one Sunday… I was probably 17 or 18. There was a visiting preacher who was giving this talk about sex. I'm not sure what he was thinking… but it was possibly one of the worst sermons I have ever heard in my life… EVER. He was discussing sexual things graphically and mispronouncing everything. There were fornIFications and menIStrations all over the place. He kept saying penis and vagina because he seemed to like both words a lot. I don't remember learning a thing except that he was a pervert. I was sitting in between my mother and my aunt when one of us started to laugh. I don't remember who, but within seconds the three of us were crying laughing. Literally, sitting there with tears rolling down our faces. My little cousin, who was too young to really understand why we were laughing, was just sitting there looking at us… which made it funnier. When we realized that we were getting kind of loud, the three of us looked around to see if anyone else realized how ridiculous it was and everyone was paying rapt attention… and this cracked us up even more. I think Aunt Debbie was the first one to run to the bathroom, followed by me, then my mother. We could not get it together. That memory has made us laugh for years. Debbie was just a lovely person. She would always have a compliment for you when she saw you, always a smile, always something funny. It is unreal to me that she is gone, which is likely the only reason I've been able to deal with it. Some realities are too painful to ever fully adjust to. (Link to an article about my aunt, she was loved by many: http://sandspuronline.com/article?id=330628)

After her funeral, I drove back to Charlotte… it was my birthday, after all. I couldn't take the sadness anymore and was ready to celebrate life. But I cried all the way home. When my friends started arriving, I felt immensely better. We went to dinner and partied all night ending with a breakfast/sleepover at my house. I had a beautiful time at that party. There was a Michael Jackson tribute, of course and great music all around… we danced the night away. This is why I say, it actually worked out for the best. I don't know how I would have gotten through that week if not for all of the activities that were planned and if not for all of my friends surrounding me and distracting me from the pain of life… such a beautiful struggle, that it is…

So that's the week that I said good-bye to my Debbie, Michael Jackson and my 20's. I cried a lot, I laughed a lot. It was simultaneously one of the best and worst weeks of my life.

I've seen a lot of MJ tribute vids and shout-outs... this is mine... a remix and video someone created to one of my favorite songs...

Heathen

I don't go to church. I don't go to a mosque or a temple or any building in which worship occurs. I don't knock people who do so. In fact, in many ways, I understand it. I recognize the need for fellowship, the need for guidance. We live in an insane world in which both horrible and wonderful things happen every day. On any given day… while a person lies in pain from a terminal illness, while someone is being raped, while a violent murder is occurring… parents are taking home their beautiful newborn child, another person comes out of a terrible accident unscathed, someone finds a reason to live.

Several good reasons for my discontent with religion in general are the people I've met throughout my life. I have problems with some doctrines as well. I've read several versions of the Bible, many times, and feel I have the right to question what I read. Mainly because the Bible has been interpreted and translated so many times, I've lost count. And I was raised around Christianity, so it's generally the religion I analyze the most. But that's another topic entirely. In all its denominations, I've found that the persons who claim to be God's chosen ones, true Christians, the most religious (and I stress religious, not spiritual), the ones who go to church every week and sit in the first pew are some of the most preening, sanctimonious, self-satisfied, hypocritical individuals I have ever met. When I was young, we had the "privilege" of having a couple who were missionaries stay with us for a period of time… I have possibly never taken such an instant dislike to people in my entire life. I will call them Larry and Joan. Larry and Joan complained… about everything. Though we (and another family before us) had taken them in, made space for them in our home, fed them so that they could prep for a life of hardship ministering to the godless natives in a foreign land, these two proceeded to speak negatively about their lodging (I had given up my room for them, by the way), the food (they had no money for anything, including groceries) and anything else you could think of. And after all was said and done, they got assigned to the horrific, war-torn land of… St. Lucia...

Yes, they got sent to an island paradise in the Caribbean, a place people choose to take vacations and honeymoons, complete with sandy beaches and water the color of turquoise. Turquoise! They came back to visit us a few years later. After toiling and suffering in a tropical refuge… they decided to come home to the States for a few weeks to see their friends and family. Another missionary couple had returned as well. I had never met them before and didn't have much time to get to know them. I don't even remember their names. However, they seemed nice enough and we all sat down and listened as both couples related their experiences. The second couple had been assigned to… South Africa. They described how they had been preaching in Cape Town when a group of protesters stormed the area… there were shootings and beatings… they had to run for their lives. They had to hide behind a building, waiting for some of the violence to pass so that they could get to their vehicle and escape. People were killed during this protest. People were shot, dragged through the streets, hung. Immediately after this, Larry spoke of the hardships he and Joan had suffered. He told a colorful tale of how he and his wife had been preaching to a family in St. Lucia. While they were talking to the adults, some kids in the yard were playing with a B.B. gun. One of the kids shot the gun at a tree and a B.B. ricocheted off it and grazed Joan on her leg. Larry expressed how he never knew things would be so difficult there.

I wish I was kidding...

But I am not. This is exactly how it went, exactly what was said. Larry tried to compete with a tale of violence and murder by relaying a story in which his wife was grazed on her calf by a B.B. from a B.B. gun. I am not making this up. This conversation actually occurred and was witnessed by several people who are still around to back me up today. I was flabbergasted. I remember looking at my mother during this discussion and attempting to telepathically ask her, "Are they serious?!" I looked around at everyone else to see if anyone else's face was expressing the disbelief I felt. But they were all enraptured by the conversation and nodding. As if this wasn't enough, my parents had planned a cookout in Larry and Joan's honor. I was completely done with them after I walked in on my mother, sad-faced and slightly teary-eyed, in the kitchen. Evidently, Larry told her that when he was visiting some family and other friends the weekend before, they had served steak at that gathering. He asked my mother, "Why are you serving only hamburgers and hot dogs?" I'm sure he said it in the voice of a humble, sincere servant of the Lord. I'm going to assume that if he were present when Jesus multiplied the loaves of bread and fish, he would have asked, "Where's the lobster?!"

If these were the only people I'd ever met like this that claimed to be holy, I probably wouldn't be the person I am now or feel the way I do about organized religion. But I've met many, many people like this my whole life. I know you can find people who are truly good and strive to follow Biblical principles, but why are these other ones the ones you see the most? I see so much hypocrisy that it's almost unbelievable. It's always that charismatic man who everyone loves to see preach the Word that ends up confessing to sleeping with one or more of his female parishioners. It's always that preacher screaming that "homosexuals are going to hell in a hand-basket full of gasoline" that ends up with pictures on the internet walking out of a gay club. There's always, always… something. I hear the excuses for it, I've heard them my whole life, too. No one's perfect, everyone makes mistakes, etc. But I ask, if you are truly a man or woman of God as you claim, shouldn't we expect you to live up to higher standards?

It doesn't help that I read an article recently regarding several televangelists/leaders of mega-churches who advocate this teaching called "prosperity theology" which in a nutshell means that God blesses preachers with money to buy mansions, Bentleys, etc. I find it hard to imagine Jesus in a Bentley or even a Benz for that matter. I don't have a problem with a "person of God" accumulating riches… I have a problem with what they do with those riches, or rather what they don't do with those riches. Maybe I'm wrong for believing that a person who claims to be spiritual should have more humility, more empathy, more regard for humanity. Maybe I will go to hell for doubting that God endows his "favored" followers with mansions and jewels and money and luxury cars and private planes when there are children starving in every country, people living on sidewalks, scientists begging for money for research to cure diseases that kill millions of people every year. I wouldn't knock a regular person for this. If I had millions of dollars, I might buy myself a luxury car or two… but I'm not claiming to be a chosen one. I'm not claiming to be blessed by God. I'm not even claiming to be a Christian because I don't label what I am. I haven't really decided yet. But I would think that any person who says they are a Christian would attempt to emulate Jesus Christ. But considering that some people who embrace Christianity have never actually read the Bible in its entirety for themselves, maybe they've never read the parts where Jesus condemned the Pharisees for their holier-than-thou attitude or turned over the money tables in the temple. Apparently, Jesus took offense to these men turning a profit on people who wanted to hear the word of God… I wonder how he'd feel about the preacher flying in on a private jet…

Cover

I love high heels. I wear them almost every day. Three inches, minimum, most of the time. Of the dozens of shoes I own, I might own one pair of sneakers. I don't really wear jeans too much, either. I mainly stick to dresses, skirts, halter tops… I love being dressed up. I love fashion. I love all the big fashion houses and name brands… Prada, Marc Jacobs, Balenciaga, Tory Burch… I also love to… read...

I'm a nerd. I'm sure this comes as no surprise to the people who grew up with me and have the proof in the form of yearbooks which show me as a member of almost every academically-inclined club or activity imaginable. I was in the National Honor Society, on the Literary Magazine staff, in the Computer Club, etc. In fact, if any of them are reading this, I'm sure when they read my nerd-status proclamation, they said, "Duh." I own (and this is possibly an understatement) over a thousand books. I have more books than shoes. I have read every one of them, most of them at least twice, some way more than that. I read everything from suspense novels to science fiction to memoirs to classic literature. I get more excited by a book release by one of my favorite authors than shopping for shoes, any day of the week. In fact, if you see me out shopping or at a party and I'm toting my big red Marc Jacobs purse, it probably has a couple of paperbacks in it, maybe a hardback if I can fit it. Speaking of parties…

I love them. I love hanging out with my friends. I love joking with them, having glasses of wine or mixed drinks with them. I love people. I love seeing them, meeting them, talking to them. I love smiling, laughing, flirting. I love dance music because I love dancing. If the DJ throws on a certain song by Beyonce, I might just jump up and do all her moves. But I also love… opera...

Turandot is my favorite. I love Puccini. Truthfully, I love most musical genres. My stepfather influenced that a lot because he is a musician. He mainly plays percussion instruments, but can pretty much play anything he puts his hands on and his mind to. He stuck with mostly Latin-jazz and fusion and some reggae and Afro-beat, but was also in a rock band for a time. He was an artist-in-residence for several years in multiple school districts. He also made his own instruments. I grew up with gourds and dried animal skins strewn all over our house. I came to love all his favorite artists which included Sade, The Police, Chick Corea, Stanley Clarke, Irakere, Talking Heads, Sly and Robbie, Bob Marley, Queen. My uncle was also an influence. He has been the director of a multi-award winning high school band for over twenty years and also plays numerous instruments. Additionally, he was the leader of an R&B group that played gigs for years and has a recording studio in his house. He and my stepfather both performed in pit bands in theatres, judged band contests, judged solo and ensemble performances and gave private lessons. I tagged along a lot. I sat in the audience at plays ranging from Oklahoma to Phantom to Once on This Island. My mother was a huge influence, too. She loves music mostly from the 60's and 70's… Fifth Dimension, the Mamas and Papas, the Carpenters, anything Motown, Earth Wind and Fire, Newbirth, the Stylistics, the Spinners, Tommy James and the Shondells. All of that stuff…my mom loves it. So I grew up exposed to every bit of it. Plus, I played piano and trumpet as a child, the trumpet a little longer. Everything they listened to… I listened, too. I came to love it. But I also grew up in the 80's and 90's… so my musical taste is possibly even more eclectic than theirs… if on shuffle, my iPod might flip from Everyday Struggle by the Notorious B.I.G to Don't Worry Baby by the Beach Boys…

I write all of this because I keep running into people who can't seem to reconcile the many sides a person may have to them. My friends and I may appear to be socialites, beaming in photos, having a great time on the party scene, but there are also nights when we sit quietly at home watching foreign movies… yes, the ones with subtitles. We might wake up the morning after a party and go to a museum to fawn over pieces of art and sculpture. My friend Kerry may have the face and wardrobe of a supermodel, but she is one of the kindest, most down-to-earth creative persons I have ever met in my life. I may not be a dreadhead or wear broom skirts and flip flops, but I actually know who Peter Tosh is. I have friends who never went to college who are more well-read than some people I know with Master's Degrees. I know people who look like they would appear on a Black Panther poster and they never read the Autobiography of Malcolm X or even saw the movie version! I know people who never step a foot into a church and are more giving, more spiritual and more enlightened than a lot of preachers in pulpits.

The funny thing is that many of the people who make uninformed assumptions are the very people who claim to be anti-establishment or unconventional thinkers to the highest degree, rebels with and without causes. I guess we are all supposed to look our parts… but what is a person who loves to read fiction and non-fiction from classics to political exposes, who listens to opera, hip hop, reggae and jazz, who watches French films and loves Star Wars, dances to pop music, watches CNN and the Cartoon Network, loves shopping at Nordstrom, writes poetry and loves the paintings of Salvador Dali supposed to look like?

One of my all-time favorite songs... thanks to my mother...

Exotic

I blame my mother. She taught me to read when I was three. And what was I to do after reading of Alice and Dorothy, of alternate realities in which animals talked, of flying elevators, of worlds where doors in closets opened to kingdoms ruled by witches… but wish I was from anywhere but from where I actually was? A small town in South Carolina. Not a talking animal to be found, no witches or warlocks hiding in my closet, no chocolate factories, no yellow brick roads. The most exotic creatures I ever saw were chickens and cows… who definitely didn't speak, at least not any language I ever learned. The only people I ever saw were neighbors who doubled as cousins… and cousins who doubled as cousins. We called our factories "plants" and the workers in them produced items as provocative as rubber tubes and t-shirts. And most of our roads were made of dirt, so whether you were walking or riding your bike, the only result of traveling them was kicking up more dust than you could ever ask for… as far as the eye could see. My dream was to be from an exotic land. Why couldn't I have been born on an island surrounded by blue dolphins? I was at the library devouring books almost every day because I couldn't bear how ordinary my life was. Why sit around swatting mosquitoes when I could daydream about tesseracting to other galaxies or secretly observing Mrs. Frisby and her rats who learned to generate electricity or teleporting deodorant off my dresser like the girl with the silver eyes? Why couldn't I live out of a boxcar or go where the wild things were or be one of Mufaro's beautiful daughters? Where was my phantom tollbooth, my bridge leading to Terabithia, my big red dog? By completely abandoning the outdoors for my bookwormish tendencies, I was taking for granted the beauty of what I considered humble surroundings. I could walk to the tree in my grandparents' backyard at any time and pluck off an apple juicier than any I've ever purchased at a grocery store. I may not have lived in a giant peach, but I could walk down the road and pick one, along with blackberries and plums and other wild fruits. I had a series of adventures with my gang of cousins every day and while we may not have found secret doors to fantasy kingdoms, we had the time of our lives. Taking our bikes to the top of the hill that led to my grandparents' house and racing down it at top speed, playing games we had to have made up, wandering into the woods and imagining things to be afraid of... I also discovered that many of the people in my life might have been the basis for characters in the stories I read. My grandmother might have been a queen in some faraway land. As physically beautiful as any woman I have ever seen to this day, she had a regal bearing, a quiet calmness that could not be shaken while raising eleven children (ten of which were girls). I have eaten at four star restaurants, but I would joyfully toss any of those meals in the garbage disposal just to have one of my grandmother's biscuits. My grandfather might have been an adventurer in a Rudyard Kipling tale, traveling the world, rescuing people in foreign lands. Usually reserved and doing whatever he had to do to provide for his family, it was only when I was older that I realized what it truly meant that my grandfather had been a soldier. In the army during World War II, my pah-pah (as all his grandchildren call him to this day) fought at the Invasion of Normandy. He can tell his stories far better than I, so I will resist. My mother and my aunts might have been a collection of sprites from Shakespeare, fairy princesses from the world of Hans Christian Andersen and the evil stepsisters from Cinderella… and which ones were which depended on the day of the week… The rest of the ensemble of characters included a neighbor who might as well have been a troll under a bridge, a great-aunt who certainly would have been inspiration for the Wicked Witch of the West and a distant cousin who bore a striking resemblance to Toad. As an adult, I have become happily resigned to the fact that I am and always will be a small-town Southern girl, heart and soul. No matter where I travel, no matter what big city life I am exposed to, I will actually go up and speak to people to whom I have been introduced. I will always believe that sweet tea is the best drink in the world (and the best sweet tea has about a half a cup of sugar for each bag you use). I'm quite positive I will always address a collective as y'all. And I have come to the realization that as exotic as I always dreamed of being, Southern women are exotic in their own way. Full of what may seem to be contradictions, we can be as sweet as peaches but as strong and stubborn as magnolia trees (an ancient genus, they've been around for millions of years). We can be genteel and still be as spicy as cayenne pepper. We have a sharpness of mind that may be hidden behind an accent full of twangs. We can encompass a full spectrum of characteristics, making us as colorful and plucky as any of my childhood heroines. I love our strength, our wisdom and the stories we hold through our very existence.