The First Installment of Things I Miss About the South

I wouldn't necessarily call myself a southerner, and I wouldn't say I'm a yankee either. I'm the type of hybrid that results from two Midwesterners procreating, moving to New York to have children, and then relocating to Atlanta after one too many winters. I don't speak with an accent; my vowels are not abused (Heeeey huuuneeey!) , nor are my "r's" missing (New Yoak), but I have picked up isms here and there. Most notably, I use the word "y'all." It's just efficient - replace "you guys" for "y'all" for a week and you'll see what I mean.

Now, Atlanta is not as deep-fried as some places below the Mason-Dixon, but I loved growing up there because it was a nice mix of that southern charm and the city life that so many northerners love. And at this moment, prime among my list of southern charms taken for granted, is simply space.

Chicago is great for so many things, and I am certainly not city-bashing, but privacy is at a premium. In fact, as I sit in my living room typing, I can look out the windows facing the street and see directly into my neighbors tv- room window across the road. They have a couple kids, and they go to bed early. One time I saw them having a private Zumba class in their backyard, and I'm sure this is more than they care for me to know. I can hear the 81 bus and the metra as they exhale. If it's a quiet night, I can probably tell you how many people get off. As most metropolitans know, the city never sleeps, and while I don't necessarily feel like someone is watching me, I never feel quite alone either. Don't get me wrong, as this can be nice. But from time to time, it would be nice to take my shoes off before I get home. When I taught in Georgia, I used to get in my car after school, lock the doors, put my hair up, take the shoes off, and play Michael Jackson as loud as my little Honda speakers could bare. Chances were, nobody would pay me much attention on the road. Nowadays, I have to be civilized until my train graciously lets me go.

There are places you can go, in Georgia and elsewhere, where the night cicadas are louder than the cars. Where space is not a luxury and you can drive or bike for miles on open road. Where gardens are overgrown and ivy controls the landscape. People own riding lawnmowers down there for a purpose. I guess I miss feeling like a piece of land is mine to occupy and mine to explore. A place where I can breathe my own air and let it go, confident in it's originality.
To make matters worse, the new tenant in the garden apartment smokes a pack a day, and her musky, second-hand cancer smells waft up two flights of stairs and remind me that I am very much not alone.

When it snows and nature cleans things up a bit, I get a glimpse of that unspoiled landscape that I very much miss. So I hope for more snow.