I would be a Southerner even if I was not a Southerner. I was born and raised in Mississippi. Not just Mississippi, but South Mississippi, South South Mississippi. If someone asks me who I am, I say, “I am a Mississippi girl.” I moved to Tennessee as a teenager, but we all know Tennessee is not the real South. They try hard, so we have to give them some credit. I have written several poems about the South in my Creative Writing class and these are actually the first poems I have ever written. I hope you like them. Thank you for taking the time to read them.
Mary Ellen Allen (Look! I even have a Southern name!)Read more
David Lee McLain is the great-great-great-grandnephew of Robert E Lee, the second cousin twice removed of Harper Lee, and a first cousin three times removed of that classiest of all southern gentlemen, Baby-Faced Nelson. He is currently on loan to an institute of higher learning in the Northeast, but is hoping to see the dry plains of Texas very soon.Read more
I am a native of North Carolina, a devoted fan of Duke basketball, and a hopeless Cheerwine addict. I’m also a vegan, and the worst part of eschewing animal products is not being able to eat a bowl of grits drowned in at least a stick of butter, and Lexington style barbeque. OK, so I do cheat once in a while, most likely because my Georgia Granny used her finger dipped in sausage gravy as my first- and favorite- pacifier. I lived outside of the South for 4 years while attending seminary in Pittsburgh, but high-tailed it back down South of Mason-Dixon the day after graduation, accepting a position in an Episcopal Church in Savannah, Georgia. My proudest achievement: teaching Yankees how to say y’all and all y’all.Read more
As a proper southern gentleman, born and raised in Charlotte NC, I enjoy sweet iced tea, occasionally bourbon (mixed together with my sweet iced tea, umm, umm good), fried chicken, seersucker suits (preferably the classic blue stripe on white), muscadines (and the wine derived there from), sweet potato custard (at least that’s what my grandma called it), and of course, G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised In The South). Read more
Only the military draft could get me to leave the South where I was born and raised in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I grew up in chigger heaven, the red clay hills of Georgia, but somehow my neck never reddened. My accent could never choose sides either, owing to my heavy books and a thing called free verse.
I never wanted to put a hood over my head, much less burn Jesus’ cross, but my great great grandma shot a rapist union solider during the War Between the States (ain’t nobody calls it “The Civil War” around these parts). That’s still a story whispered with pride at family Sunday dinners (I mean “lunches” for you Northerners, and suppers are when you eat dinners—you damn backward yankees!).
In my growing years, I lived near a church and a still. In those woods I bet I could still find a still, and I bet too that I could find some of them still workers in church on Sunday puttin’ some ill-begotten gains in the collection plate.
The South has changed, but it still has a unique soul. For better or worse, I’m not just whistlin’ Dixie.Read more