The Banjo is the Soundtrack to My Life

When I was in college in the mountains of North Carolina, yet another place I mistakenly thought my accent would go undetected, my friends, well my non-southern friends, became enamored with my accent.

In fact, they became so enamored that they decided my accent reminded them of a banjo (hence the title of the blog).  So from then on, whenever my accent would get particularly thick someone would start making banjo noises.  That was also usually the cue that no one could understand me.  I would be adding vowels and dropping consonants left and right until I would hear the banjo noise and notice the confused expressions around me.

Note: My accent gets thick(er) during select occasions.  If someone talks about it.  If I am drinking.  If I am extremely excited, mad, sad, sick or whiney.  Okay, maybe it's not so select.

Anyway, at first I was a bit offended by the whole banjo distinction.  I don't think I sound like a banjo... much.  Then I realized that I love the banjo, so why would I not want to be associated with it?

Nothing lifts my mood more than a great mixture of banjo and fiddle music, especially if it's Doc Watson.  How can you not be inspired by a blind 88-year-old who is one of the best guitar and banjo players of our time?  As a side note, even though he is blind, he managed to build a toolshed behind his house in North Carolina... impressive?  I think yes.

The banjo has influenced a lot of areas of my life.  It's my muse for writing (and yes, I'm listening to the Doc Watson Pandora station right now), it's my relaxation tool and its a source of bonding for my father and I.

Incidentally, I was recently able to combine 3 of my favorite things into one glorious afternoon.  My father and I regularly visit wineries in the Yadkin Valley of North Carolina.  Well on this particular day we pulled up to a winery called The Divine Llama... and no I'm not kidding.  This winery/llama farm was the greatest place ever.  The co-owner stopped working in the vineyards (which are right next to one of the llama pens), opened the tasting room, put on banjo/fiddle music and gave us a wine tasting.

Llamas?  Check.
Banjo music?  Check.
Wine?  Check.
Best day ever?  Check!

So I have decided that I am no longer embarrassed by the banjo comparison - I'm fully embracing my banjo-ness and consequently my love for llamas.

Bring it on non-southerners.  You're going to have to try harder than that to make me ashamed of my southern ways.

But bless your heart, I know you're trying awful hard!

Come on back now, ya hear?

Bless Your Heart... No, Seriously... Bless Your Heart

"Well bless your heart, Darlin'!" I said as I clutched my hand over my heart.

"..." (confused stare).

I suppose it's time for the "bless your heart" conversation.  

It's a staple in every true southern woman's vocabulary (and some men's, but that a whole different conversation in the south).  It has multiple meanings and only one of them is good.  And apparently it's one of the most baffling phrases a southerner can utter to an outsider... bless their hearts.

Being born and raised in the south, I was completely unaware that this phrase (among others) was a southern expression.  I just assumed that people all over the country were blessing each other's hearts.  I probably bless 10-20 hearts on a slow day... and that's nothing compared to my mother.  She blesses more people than the Pope.

So what does it mean?  How, as an outsider, can you know which way you're being blessed (good or bad)?  Well it's simple Darlin'!  Let's start with the genuinely nice ones since they are easier to spot.

Genuine Bless Your Hearts

Genuine admissions of bless your heart are meant to express sympathy, empathy, or pity and generally involve a hand gesture of some sort (usually a hand over heart motion).  Concerned eyes and an empathetic voice are usually a staple as well.

Example 1:

"I've had a dreadful cold all week..."

"Well heavens to betsy, that's just terrible.  Bless your little heart!"

Example 2:

"This has been such a long week, I don't know if I will make it through!"

"Well bless your heart Darlin'.  You let me know if I can do anything for you!"

See?  Easy.  Genuine tone, genuine situations, and usually a genuine hand gesture.  So now the hard part is distinguishing between the nice and the seemingly nice.

Rude Bless Your Hearts

As most of you may know, true, old school, southern women do not like to talk about things that are considered inappropriate and a good southern woman would never talk badly about anyone... directly anyway.  So that is where bless your heart comes into play.

When a southern woman wants to say something rude or unbecoming of a lady, she will involve the phrase bless your heart, because it makes it sound more pleasant.  Clever, huh?  That is how southern woman can be bitches without being bitches.  Just like wearing pearls, you are always classy as long as you add bless your heart!

Things to watch for: Shaking of the head, pursed lips, rolling or wide eyes, and a patronizing voice.

Example 1:

"Bless her heart, she's just not very pretty."

Example 2:

"Well bless her little heart, her momma never taught her to not dress like a tramp."

Do you understand now?  Good!

And if you don't... well, bless your heart!

Two Different Kinds of Southern

My mom was raised by good mountain folk in the backwoods of North Carolina.  My father was raised by southern aristocrats in the foothills of North Carolina.  Same state, completely different upbringing, so what do they have in common?  Me.  I am their heritage-challenged child and since I was a young I have struggled with the search for my southern identity.

Am I a Sallie Mae or a Daisy Mae?
Do I wear a ball gown or cut-off shorts?
Should I put on lipstick or load my gun?

(Note: For those of you who aren't up to date on your southern icons, Sallie Mae Ward was considered to be THE southern belle of her time and Daisy Mae Duke is the famous wearer of Daisy Duke shorts - think Dukes of Hazzard).

In every situation, I always feel the pull to be both.  That is especially true when I am home in the sticks of North Carolina.

When I go out to my sister's house I feel the need to dig through my drawer and find a browning shirt or a cut-off NASCAR shirt - something to proclaim my loyalty to the redneck lifestyle.

When I go visit my father's extended family I break out my pearl necklace, cardigan, and lipstick - anything to proclaim my loyalty to the southern elite and show I was raised to be a docile southern woman.

I have loyalty to both.  Extreme loyalty.  On one hand, I have a pink browning decal on my SUV.  On the other hand, I never, and I mean never, leave the house without my pearl earrings.

I'm too prissy for the rednecks and too rough for the elitists.  So where do I fit in?

I suppose I will just continue to parade around in my pearls and NASCAR attire until I figure it out.

But I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm Sallie Mae... I do throw a hell of a dinner party after all.

How Do You Spell That?

I've lived in the south my entire life.  So, when I made the move from North Carolina to Savannah, Georgia I assumed I would fit right in.  It's called the "hostess city of the south" for God's sake.  What better place for a member of the southern brethren to maintain some anonymity.

Nope.  I stick out like a sore thumb.

I failed to calculate the amount of transplants living in Savannah.  Add to that the sheer number of tourists on any given day and I'm lucky if I can locate a native southerner.  My plan failed.  Now more than ever, I spend the majority of my time explaining my southern-ness.  The questions, along with the confused expressions, never stop.

Why do you bless everyone's hearts?
What the heck is a buggy?
Why does your accent make me want to listen to banjo music?
Your family has its own moonshiner?!... Wait, what's moonshine?

The most common thing I hear is "You should write a book about all the weird southern phrases you say.  They're hilarious!" Well, Jeff Foxworthy beat me to the punch on that, but there is no reason I can't finally appease my obvious northern (or non-southern) fan base and continue on a more applicable route.

I can imagine that this all sounds very tribal, very "we hate outsiders," but for me the south is a place where I can speak the native language and not be asked, "How do you spell that?"  No matter how many vowels I add or consonants I ignore, a true southerner will always be able to understand me.  So it's not a matter of exclusion, just convenience I suppose.