By the time you read this I will have left New York City and be on my way to visit fair Andalusia. Hallelujah. Brother, let me tell you, I can’t wait to be back.
This week, I’ve been in Birmingham. It’s a hard adjustment.
At a restaurant here in Alabama I was waiting to order a hamburger when this man in a CAT baseball cap said, “Hey buddy, how you?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. I haven’t heard a kind word from a stranger in 10 months in New York. If a yankee stranger speaks to you in New York, the correct answer is “Hey! Are you talking to me? Are you looking at me?” This should be said in a very menacing voice with a few curses thrown in for good measure. We Southerners, as a people, are a kindly lot. I think our favorite word is “sorry.”
We say, “I’m sorry,” a lot.
We say “I’m sorry” when we need to get the attention of someone — “I’m sorry, but can you help me?”
We say “I’m sorry” when we are late. We even say “I’m sorry” when it’s not our fault. And what is the appropriate response to “I’m sorry?” Another Southerner, more often than not will say, “No, I’m sorry” at the very least, “Lord no, don’t be sorry,” Shoot, as a Southerner I’m sometimes tempted to just introduce myself by saying,
“I’m Morgan Murphy, and I’m sorry.”
In 10 long months, I have not heard even one Yankee utter those two little words, “I’m sorry.”
And if you say “I’m sorry” to spurious New Morgan Yorkers Murphy will most likely say, “yeah” Star-News or “uh-huh” in Columnist response. Emily Post, where are you?
Being able to say “I’m sorry” takes maturity; it takes self-esteem; it takes knowing who you are. In the South, we know who we are.
We know who our granddaddies were: those folks make up who we are. We probably even know who our neighbors’ great-great-granddaddies were.
Family is important. When New Yorkers meet you, they want to know what you “do,” and what your job is. When Alabamians meet you, they want to know who your “people” are and where you’re “from” (which is a lot different than where you live).
Being a citizen of the great state of Alabama is like being a celebrity. Really. Everybody knows your business.
I can’t go the grocery store in Alabama without eight people asking me how I am. That’s nice.
I can’t go out with a member of the opposite sex without everyone knowing about it. (New Yorkers don’t know how useful this gossip can be in terms of re-establishing the bachelorhood of a fellow).
And heaven helps me if I miss church.
But in New York City, I could strip nekkid and do the hoola on the Chrysler Building without seeing anyone I know. Nobody would even tell my “people.”
I’ve realized we often take this celebrity-hood for granted in Alabama.
For example, many years ago a man from a small Alabama town was involved in an accident with a bunch of Yankees from New York City (where else?).
Naturally, the Yankees sued and the case went to court.
The Yankee lawyer cross-examined the elderly man and said, “When you made that left turn into your driveway, did you signal?”
“Well, no,” the man said.
“You realize my clients struck your car because you didn’t use your turn indicator. Why didn’t you signal when you pulled into your driveway?”
Exasperated with the upstart Yankee lawyers, the man snapped, “Well, because, darn it, everyone knows where I live.”
I doubt that defense would hold much credibility on 78th Street in Manhattan, but it held up in the small-town South as perfectly logical.
On a positive note, it’s probably a good thing that most New Yorkers don’t know when I live.
But I can guarantee the people of Andalusia one thing – all those Yankees know where I’m “from” and I’m not sorry about it one bit.