Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Community

Here, folks take an interest and remember, especially when you don't want them to. They remember the deeds of your forebears, too. While at work the other day, I met the great uncle of my neighbor across the street. He praised his grand-niece and her husband, and then added in a conspiratorial tone that one of her relations "on the other side" is "one of them no-good Jeb Parkers". [Apparently, the rest of the Parkers and their offspring turned out fine, except for Jeb and a few of his progeny]. The extended family is waiting with baited breath to see if Jeb's bad blood will come out in her son, who couldn't be any nicer for a nine-year-old boy. No wonder she sighs and shakes her head a lot, and they keep pretty much to themselves.

Ah, small town life. At times I'd rather be anonymous. I occasionally enjoy visits to large cities, because I can slip through unnoticed like a blood cell in an artery, propelled by the beat of urban life: a microscopic part of the whole. Whenever I take one of these field trips, though, I invariably feel saddened by the end of the day. Not only does no one in the urban organism know my name--or even care; the same incidental existence feels as though it must be true for every other inhabitant.

No, I'd rather live here. When I first came South, I was afraid that I wouldn't ever be accepted as one of the community because

(a) I came from the North (no matter what you were told about the Mason-Dixon Line in your American history class, Maryland is North, according to the South);
(b) Worse yet, I grew up in California!
(c) I don't drawl; and
(d) My last name isn't Parker, Rawls, Bond, Breland, Havard, Dickerson, Collins, Harper, Bond, Hartfield, Fairley, Dedeaux, Ladner, Saucier, Smith, or Thornton.

During my initial year here, the first question asked of me, after my name, was "Now then, darlin', who's yer kin?" In the rural Deep South, every person born within a 50 mile radius seems to become part of a collective mental pedigree known by every cognizant citizen over the age of 13. Even before names and "Pleased to meet you"'s are exchanged, the older folks will squint at you and strain to place your likeness on a branch of the communal tree: "You'd be powerfully favorin' Mr. Joe Dedeaux's kin...are you one of theirs?"

The downcast faces resulting from my explanation that I am, alas, not originally from these parts are even sadder than they would have been if I had told them I was related to Jeb Parker. If were one of Jeb's kin, I might have bad blood waitin' to come out, but at least I would already be part of the communal fold: a product of the hard work, gentle chidings, loving guidance, and fond doting of the extended family. There would be a general sense of relief that I would probably "turn out all right". I would be a variable compatible with local algorithms.

Kin or stranger, though, folks around these parts will evaluate you on your own merits. If you are honest, kind, hardworking, neighborly, and polite, they'll take you in as one of their own. They'll be inquisitive, yes; they'll also be helpful, compassionate, even protective.

Before long, you'll be thriving as a grafted branch of the communal tree. You'll feel your own roots creeping deeper into the red clay soil, giving you a sustenance that propels you forward in life even as you strengthen your ties with the history of this land and its people.

In other words, you'll be "country".

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