I am a Yankee living in South Carolina. Actually, I am what is referred to as a Damn Yankee…because I came from the North and stayed! Being a DY, I had to teach myself to say an important Southern contraction—y’all. It is more than just a contraction; it encapsulates an identity, a way of life. Saying y’all hasn’t come naturally to me. It has taken a lot of hard work and an important mental shift—an identity shift. I grew up in places like Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. I’ve said you guys my entire life. In college, I knew lots of guys from Pittsburgh and so I got used to youns guys, too. That rolled off my tongue as easily as you guys. Y’all has always been in my vocabulary, but it has never come easy to me. I usually said it mocking southerners and the stereotypical slow drawl.
When I went to graduate school I left the green woods of rural Pennsylvania for the Classic City—Athens, GA. Before I started school in Athens, I had spent two summers in Georgia so I was familiar with some aspects of Southern culture. I wasn’t really a participant, though—just a knowledgeable observer. I fit in reasonably well in school. There were enough kids from foreign places who had funny accents (like Atlanta and Charlotte, even Richmond) so that I really was able to blend in to the cosmopolitan university culture unnoticed. Sure, the people who knew me well knew I was a Yankee, but they accepted me anyway. They even tried to teach me the cultural ropes.
I did fine in Athens. When I got outside of Athens, things got hairy. I spent many weekends and school breaks with a friend excavating a Middle Woodland mound and village near Hawkinsville, GA. Hawkinsville is deep in the heart of South Georgia, in the Big Bend of the Ocmulgee River. It is a small town, off the beaten path. It is the kind of place where foreigners are easily spotted. The residents of Hawkinsville are fine, tolerant people who wouldn’t hold a grudge against a DY such as me. But they can spot a DY after just a few words and will make sure you know that they know what you are.
The excavation I worked on drew the attention of locals. We were out in a field and easily visible to those driving by. And, well, Hawkinsville is a small town so it didn’t take long for word to get out. Friendly, curious people would come out and watch us digging in our square holes. They’d ask us perfectly logical questions like why the Indians dug square holes and why we were digging them back out. Or they would ask if we’d found any gold yet. Others wanted to know why we were digging on that particular spot when they knew of much better places. The problem for me was that I couldn’t understand them when they came to my pit to talk to me. They would appear at the edge of my unit and speak in a tongue I couldn’t follow. I would try desperately to listen to every word in the hopes that I could recognize enough to come up with an appropriate response. It usually didn’t work and I would end up looking to my friend who was a native of Georgia (well, Atlanta) for a translation. I suppose I must have appeared to be a mute to most visitors. I would listen intently, look at them, then look to my friend and shrug. I suppose they thought we were running some kind of program for special needs adults.
In a way it was a special program and I was a special needs adult. I was in a foreign land trying to learn the language and culture and this was an immersion program designed to teach me those things. Like other immersion-type programs, it was challenging for all of us (me and the residents of Hawkinsville), but we all learned and we all grew.
One night, while I was still in training, my friend and I had worked late and were in search of a place to eat dinner. It was winter time on a Saturday night is a sleepy town in South Georgia. There wasn’t much to eat outside of the local Hardees. Since we had been patronizing that place for weeks, we went in search of something different or maybe, better. We pulled up at one of a very few local bars and my friend said to me, “Hop out and go ask if they are still serving dinner.” I looked at him incredulously. I was still in training. Yoda was afraid to let Luke go before he was ready. Was I ready? Would I come out alive?
It was one of those local places where the same four people go there every night and everyone knows everyone who could or should walk through the door. I was not in either of those categories. I walked in and all five faces (four patrons and the bar tender) turned and looked at me. I confidently walked up to the bar to ask if dinner was still being served. I meant to say, “Are y’all still serving dinner?” The problem was that I couldn’t get the word y’all out. I honestly tried to say the sentence three times, tripping over y’all each time. I finally gave in and said, “Are you guys still serving dinner?” I so wanted to at least get that y’all out, but I couldn’t do it. I hadn’t been in the program long enough. I got a curt, no sir. The other heads turned away and I walked out embarrassed, but unharassed. I am sure that locals to this day talk about the Yankee archaeologist who tried to say y’all. We dined at Hardees again that night before retiring to the Eastman motel (where a friend got ringworm from sleeping on the floor).
After 22 years in the special needs program, I have been able to integrate y’all into everyday speech. There are certain Southern phrases that I still haven’t embraced, like responding to an utterance that I don’t understand with “do what? Or saying I am going to carry my kids to the store instead of take my kids to the store. For better or worse, the word buggy has replaced shopping cart in my vocabulary.
Recently I had the distinct pleasure of spending part of spring break back in Pennsylvania. Now when you think of Spring Break, I know you do not automatically think Altoona, PA. But that is your mistake! Getting a hotel was amazingly easy and there were no crowds, except at the Sheetz gas pumps. We got a great hotel with a pool (indoors, thankfully) centrally located to all the important sights in Altoona: Galactic Ice skating rink, Garvey Manor nursing home, and Dunkin’ Donuts.
The mall was right there too, but we just ran out of time. We spent most of our time ice skating and swimming at the hotel. It was interesting being back amongst the people of my native land. Despite my years of exile, I didn’t have much problem blending back in, but I wore my Penn State t-shirt for extra camouflage. Still, I think people could tell there was something funny about me. I moved a bit too slow and seemed maybe a bit too nice.
While at the skating rink, I patronized the stromboli stand a number of times. You just can’t get good pizza and strombolis in the South. It’s the dough. At one point, I went up to the counter to ask about a stromboli I had ordered a half hour before. I was a bit impatient because it had taken a really long time for it to cook. Still, I waited in line politely (noticeably too politely, I let some little kids in front of me) until it was my turn. When I got to the counter I intended to say “do you guys have my meatball stromboli ready yet?” The problem was that I tripped over the words you guys three times and finally blurted out, “Do y’all have my meatball stromboli ready yet?” Needless to say, I got a double take from my stromboli customer service specialist and I was instantly outted as a foreigner, a false Pennsylvanian.
I am a victim of the Southern immersion program I’ve been in for over 20 years. It has worked too well. Now, I don’t fit in anywhere. I am not a Southerner, I am a Damn Yankee. That will never change. My kids, they were born in South Carolina so they are native Southerners. I am an outsider. But at this point I am not a real Yankee either. I say y’all reflexively and am uncontrollably polite and patient.
I am a man without a home, a misfit adrift on the sea of regional identity, destined to be an outsider where ever I go. I guess at this point I might as well move to France where I will be identified instantly as an American and assumed to be an idiot. The swiftness and certainty of judgment will be a great comfort.
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