I’m from Philadelphia. You know, where this country was born? Ben Franklin? The Phillies? Cheesesteaks? Any of this ringing a bell? A Liberty Bell, perhaps?
Okay so I lied a minute earlier. I’m not actually from Philadelphia, but from a really close suburb about 15 minutes from the edge of the city. But when you’re away at college and you are asked about 80 billion times a day where you’re from, “Philadelphia” becomes a far better response than “Bucks County, Pa.” Because let’s face it: When people think of Pennsylvania, they envision a wide, rural landscape interrupted only by the occasional horse and buggy, and maybe some people churning butter. That actually sounds quite nice, when you think about it. Plus, “Bucks County, Pa.” involves a whole lot of vocal effort, whereas “Philadelphia” seems to roll off the tongue.
So after spending the entirety of my childhood above the Mason-Dixon Line, coming to the University was, quite frankly, a wee bit of a shock. Back in the world I knew, people never held doors open for those behind them; the only sounds louder than the horns in a traffic jam were the shouts of the drivers; and days were divided into hours, minutes, seconds, and, usually, milliseconds. Ha, you think I’m joking.
Now, don’t get me wrong, kids. I love Philadelphia. I love visiting Independence Hall, cheering on the Eagles or even just strolling down Broad Street, taking in the sights. The City of Brotherly Love will always hold a special place in my heart. And for the longest time, I was convinced Philly would always be where I felt most at home, that it could never be replaced. Then I came to Charlottesville and realized that Philadelphia didn’t have to be replaced at all — it just had to scoot over a smidge.
The initial transition was hard. I remember getting lost in seas of polo shirts, khakis and vineyard vines patterns. Everywhere I turned, I was confronted by plaid, paisley and seersucker. I even developed a temporary phobia of floral sundresses. And then there was this whole football game tradition. Guys in ties? Girls in pearls? With curls? And maybe something about squirrels? I was a Yankee who simply could not adjust. For a little while, that is.
I’ve had my time to adapt, reader, and you know what? I think I like it. That’s right. I simply cannot get enough of this Southern culture. I couldn’t beat them, so I joined them. Not that joining the other side is always a good thing, kids. Don’t try this at home. Peer pressure is bad, bad, bad.
Let’s talk about “y’all,” the lovely contraction between “you” and “all” that exists as a staple in the southern region of the United States. At first, I didn’t get it. I would force myself to say “you guys” even though “y’all” was really so much easier. Now, I use the term without thinking, and I am delighted when I do so. Laugh at me if you must, even though I know that secretly you are wildly jealous.
Oh, and then there are monograms — whoever thought having your initials stitched out of order onto everything you own could be so fantastic? Sounds like good clean fun to me. And cowboy boots: Every time I slip them on I want to say crazy things like “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.” I imagine tumbleweeds rolling by me wherever I go. In fact, the only critical element of Southern culture that I haven’t yet been able to accept is — dare I say it — country music. Ick. I give an involuntary twitch every time I hear it. But that’s another story for another time.
I’m sure some of you are reading this and thinking that Virginia is hardly Southern compared with the rest of the South, and that I haven’t seen anything quite yet. Not to worry: I realize this, and I look forward to learning more in the future. So while I love running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art and pretending I’m Rocky, or visiting the former residence of Betsy Ross, I can still appreciate the Southern hospitality I find in so many of you. So thanks. I owe y’all.
Lauren’s column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at l.kimmel@cavalierdaily.com.
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