That Red Haired Yankee Girl

by Jill MacGregor

Mississippi is the only place where a man can call me *little lady* and I won’t give him the stink eye. It took awhile though.

When I was 24, and could more easily be considered a little lady…as opposed to the ma’am I’ve become…I moved from St. Paul, Minnesota to Hattiesburg, Mississippi—a small town that was so far south it might as well been in the water. I went from being a baker at a trendy spot (because that is what one does with a double major in French and International Studies…) to working in advertising sales at a new TV station in this tiny, little town…and what did I know about that?

Note: when you’re a baker, you are always greeted with joy—when you’re selling advertising, you are more commonly eyed with suspicion and occasionally hidden from.

And because I was a stranger to all I met in this Southern town, and since they hadn’t known my family for 150 years, my clients didn’t always learn my name. Many times, I was greeted with “Now, there’s that red haired Yankee girl again.” Smacks a little of *red haired step child*, don’t you think? That’s what some people called me. It wasn’t meant as a dig. But it identified that I was outside of the group, minus an unrecognizable pedigree–I was not one of them and they all knew it. And some of them were still a little pissed about the war (yes, that one)…in case I was wondering.

Everything was so unfamiliar. This chunk of change I had just bitten off felt overwhelming. I was very aware of how I didn’t fit in—and I tried to convince myself that their acceptance wasn’t important. But it was. I wanted people to get me. I wanted their kindness to be generated by more than gentile politeness.

I didn’t know how to define myself in this new place, in this new situation where I was working for the MAN—me! My Minnesota friends were actually horrified by my *selling out*… Me–who had volunteered at the co-op.

Me.

Who was I now?

Not even my own language was familiar in this new place. When these people that I was suddenly surrounded with began to talk, it just sounded like someone was playing a banjo. Dang didang dang dang…that’s all my unaccustomed ears heard. I felt like an Elocution Coach, with my Midwestern lack of accent and my failure to drop the occasional g.

Hazyamamanem?

That is a question in Mississippi. The proper response is not, “Bless you”. It is not an American Indian tribe or the name of a river. The Hazyamamanem is about to swell past its banks! Get the sandbags!

Hazyamamanem is actually a test for anyone who hasn’t picked up the most southern of Southern accents…yes, it is reserved for the Yankees. Translated, it’s “How’s your mama and them?” But it is said as one big word and the response should somehow incorporate a Youghtahavta—as in “Good, good. Youghtahavta come for a visit.”

Now, I am not making fun. I am merely pointing out the confusion I was experiencing from the spoken word…something that I’d considered myself fluent in for years—English and French at that stage of my life—but it had all just turned into…banjos. Twangity, twang, twang, twang.

Who was I in this new place, doing nothing that seemed familiar?

Then one day it happened. It took a long time— almost a year. And please know that up to that point I had fought hard against the assimilation that daily knocked on my door and said, “Aw, come on, just say it.” I would grit my teeth and tighten my lips, like an ornery child refusing to eat the last spoonful of peas. “Just say it once…little lady. Try it,” it would coax, just like that snake from the Jungle Book.

One day I forgot myself, I was chatting with new friends, enjoying a lovely day and it happened.

I said “ya’ll”.

It was a no turning back moment. “Ya’ll” is the gateway.

I knew that once “ya’ll” had infiltrated my speech, it would be no time at all before I would be “fixin’ to”. God only knew how much longer I had before I would “youghtahavta”…and forget about those errant g’s.

I gulped and understood. The biggest part of belonging is acceptance. Not just you and not just them.

Moving to Mississippi was a valuable lesson in learning how to appreciate the things I didn’t immediately understand. Living there became a language I began to understand even if it wasn’t my native tongue. I’ve developed affection for this place I have since visited at least twice a year, ever since. Mississippi is your crazy uncle, your sweet grandma, your charming spinster aunt, your growling junkyard dog on a chain, your hell fire and brimstone preacher on a Sunday and, often times, the last thing you expect.