It seems anytime I meet new people, one of the first questions they ask me is, “Where are you from?” Sometimes it’s because of a perceived accent that I have, but most of the time it’s because of how I look. When I just respond that I’m from Birmingham, some people continue, “In the U.K.?” No, Birmingham, Alabama. People also frequently tell me that I look Russian. My accent sounds Russian. I must have some Russian heritage. But as far as I know, I don’t.

A few month ago after watching Braveheart at home with my mama, I inquired again (as I have several times over the years) about our ancestry. Where are we from? Essentially, I’m a European mutt. A little Irish, a bit of Scottish, some English, and also Austrian. But this is of little significance. I have no ties to these places, I know nothing of this heritage. What I do know, is that as far back as we can trace (mid 1800s), my family is from the South. From Brunswick, Georgia, from Mississippi, and mostly from the greater Birmingham area of Alabama.

The older I get, and the more complicated life seems to get, I find myself clinging so tightly to these roots. When people don’t assume that I’m from Europe, when they don’t argue that I can’t be from Birmingham, they apologize that I am from Birmingham. People who are from nearby Georgian counties apologize as though being raised in a more sterero-typically Southern place is some kind of travesty. Oh, how I disagree. I want to apologize right back to them that they may not have known the kind of childhood I did. A childhood that I cherish and look back on so very fondly and hope that I can give to my children one day as well.

Maybe they don’t know the joys of picking tomatoes ripe off the vine of their papa’s farm. What it feels like to have someone pay you ten cents for a tiny little Dixie cup of that lemonade your mama helped you make for your first venture into earning money. Maybe they didn’t get to play hide-and-seek with their cousins in the tall grasses of a field, or look forward to the joys of an autumn family reunion weekend spent in cabins roasting marshmellows for s’mores, or the bravery of playing on a dam after your mama and aunt repeatedly told you not to. They can’t possibly know how grateful you are that your papa got to teach you how to fish when you were a kid, or listening to your mother scold you for making wishes on dandelions because they’ll just spread the weed all over the yard. Or those summer beach trips to St. Simon’s Island looking for crabs in the dark with a flashlight, and during the day, climbing giant Spanish moss trees that have most likely been growing for centuries. How can anyone apologize that you got to learn to paint from your granny and cross-stitch from your mom? I’ll never understand it.

But what I do know, is that I find myself reflecting on all of these experiences of my childhood and I want nothing more than to go back. I want to be assured that the South that I grew up knowing will always be there.

As I sit here I’m surrounded,
By these priceless memories,
I don’t have to think about it,
There’s no place I’d rather be,

In Carolina or in Georgia,
Smell the jasmine and magnolia,
Sleepy Sweet home Alabama,
Roll tide roll,
Muddy water, Misssissippi,
Blessed Graceland whispers to me,
Carry on, Carry on,
Sweet Southern Comfort,
Carry on, Carry on,
Sweet Southern Comfort, carry on. – Buddy Jewell

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