It has taken me some years to carefully mold my Alabama yahoo disposition into New York City urban chic.
Sophistication is not a natural-born gift, contrary to the belief of many a junior-high school student; and for roughly two years here in Manhattan, I have held to the notion that if I wore black, pierced some part of my body in an uncomfortable spot, lived in an apartment not much bigger than a deer stand, and developed a love of, God help me, tofu, then I might be cool.
But trying to stay fashionable in New York costs roughly the same as a toilet at the Pentagon, so I never even tried. In defiance of every fashion magazine and shop window, I wear my native clothes and figure New Yorkers can just cope. They put up with robberies, bombings, nuclear threats, crack dealers, cab drivers, movie stars, escaped terrorists, Canadians, and Donald Trump–what’re a little khaki pants and button-down shirts going to hurt?
I could wear white vinyl shoes with black socks, plaid shorts, a purple burlap bag with “Potato Bottom” stamped on my backside, a straw beach hat, a naval ring, a tongue ring, an earring, black mascara, blue hair-dye, alligator gloves, sport two drinking straws coming out of my nostrils, and a lace body-stocking and there isn’t a New Yorker that would give me a second glance.
But walk down the street in a blue-stripped seersucker with white bucks and residents of this tiny island look at me like I’m Newt Gingrich in a bikini. Revulsion, disgust, derision, scorn, fear, and loathing swirl around my summer clothes. Oh, the shame of it all.
Recently, however, startling developments have occurred. Things Southern have become “cool.” Whereas there are probably kids in Montgomery clamoring for black street clothes and huge sneakers, suddenly New Yorkers are donning cowboy boots, seersucker jackets, linen suits, and listening to Garth Brooks live in Central Park, wolfing down grits and sweet tea, and talking about moving to North Carolina.
Which should be a warning to us all. Let’s look at history. Back in ‘83, Amberjack was a trash fish, right? Cost next to nothing. Then a couple of restaurants in Noo-Yawk started serving it and suddenly it’s $11.50 a pound. I see calamity on the hill, mayhem near the horizon, disaster on a fiery steed with New York plates! We’ll be charged by the grit! Jack Daniel’s will be described as “Full bodied with a bashful hint of oak, “ and a Starbucks cappuccino might replace a Stucky’s Big Slurp . . . (although I’m fairly convinced that Stucky’s will forever remain Alabama’s unofficial rest stop)
Oh sure, they’ll start innocently enough saying things like, “I just love the South! We’ve always wanted to get away from city life and raise our children in a normal environment. Why, we’ve even subscribed to Southern Living. Say, where do ‘you all’ get good chitterlings around here?” But don’t believe them! They just want your land, your water, and your new bass boat.
What I’m saying here is be prepared for invasion. Arm yourselves. Lock up your women and children. The Yankees are coming. They’ve already got Virginia, North Carolina, Atlanta, and parts of Tennessee. Alabama is the next target. They walk among us already. They’re practicing up here in Manhattan by wearing our clothes and preparing their lungs to breathe oxygen instead of carbon monoxide. But don’t be fooled. I know how these people work.
Soon, Andalusia, if you don’t watch out, you’ll have “sprouts” on your salads and “veggie tofu burgers” on the menu and be running around the square speaking half in French and ordering Frites en Flambé from the Dairy Queen.
—Morgan Murphy