Excuse Me, Ma'am? Could You Focus on the Important Things?

We're still bragging about this...
There's no way you're going to get our kids to stop saying, "ma'am."

I live in a small, rural county in eastern North Carolina. Tarboro is the county seat, and for most folks around here, it feels like the big city. Tarboro has  a McDonald’s and a Walmart, after all. (Although the Walmart isn’t the twenty-four hour kind. That place locks up at midnight. Unlike most places that can claim, “Nothing good happens after midnight,” Tarboro is altogether different. Here we say, “NOTHING happens after midnight.” Not a gosh darn thing. We pretty much roll up the streets after 10 pm.)

Heck, the local Piggly Wiggly (that’s the local grocery for those of y’all that ain’t from around here) doesn’t even unlock its doors on Sunday until after church service. True story.

Tarboro, NC is like a scene out of Mayberry. A small town with tree-lined streets and well-kept Victorian homes, Tarboro is smack dab in the middle of Edgecombe County, surrounded by sprawling fields full of cotton and tobacco.

While North Carolina isn’t exactly the “deep” South, we are firmly tucked inside the Bible Belt. Change comes slowly here. Just like our historic houses and monuments to the “Southern Cause,” the way we talk is an artifact from the past, and it’s not just our Southern drawls.

We hold tight to manners in much the same way we clutch our pearls and handkerchiefs, thinking the rest of the world is at least a smidgen barbaric. And most people think this is charming and quaint, like front-porch sitting, knowing your neighbors, the smell of magnolias, and Sunday dinner. It reminds people of gentler days when things were simpler and time moved at a slower pace.

This place is as Southern as they come. The main industry is agriculture, and families here can trace their last names back generations. Children here are weaned on sweet tea and cut their teeth on cornbread and homemade biscuits.

Just like in other places across the country, a child’s first word is liable to be “no.” Kids are amazingly similar no matter where you’re from.

However, around here that word is also likely to be followed by the word “ma’am,” lest there be a butt whooping and hell to pay.

As you can imagine, it was quite a surprise when our little Tarboro made the national news this week for this:

Coming up at 4:30 and 6 on @ABC11_WTVD: Parents of a Tarboro 5th grader are upset after their son got in trouble for calling a teacher "ma'am" against her wishes. In response, they say the teacher made him write the word repeatedly on a sheet of paper pic.twitter.com/KJghF8rPQb

— Michael Perchick (@MichaelPerchick) August 23, 2018

Elementary school children are no match for easily offended adults who wear imagined oppression like a badge of honor.

So, yeah. Tarboro, NC, hometown of good ol’ boys, makes national news because a teacher punished a fifth grader for calling her ma’am.

She might as well have cursed the sky for being blue.

The teacher claims to have repeatedly told the child to stop referring to her as ma’am. We don’t really know why... because privacy issues and educational politics. Perhaps she was upset this kid assumed her gender. How dare a 10 year-old attempt to dictate the gender identity of his teachers?

Or perhaps it was this teacher’s attempt to rip down the patriarchy, liberating women from archaic gender roles. Maybe this teacher is on a mission to destroy rules of decorum that limit ladies to nibbling cucumber sandwiches held daintily in white-gloved hands.

God help the poor guy who tries to hold the door for this one.

Ma’am isn’t a curse word. It shouldn’t be treated like hate speech. It isn’t meant to disparage or intimidate. It isn’t an insult to women everywhere. It’s just a way to show respect to your elders. It’s a way to be polite and civil. It’s one of the few things that separate us from the beasts. (You know? Those barbarians living above the Mason Dixon?)

Even if you think the term is incredibly outdated, you can’t easily unravel years of home-training.

Sorry, Lady (term loosely applied). You’ll have to try harder if you plan to make these kids woke. We resist change here like we resist Texas-style barbecue (is it really even barbecue?), unsweet tea (Or as we call it: nasty brown water), and low-carb diets (Bring on the biscuits and mashed taters!) And I promise that resistance isn’t all bad. It’s one of those things that makes this place homey and friendly and charming.

Sweetheart, if you’re going to make it in this town, you’re going to need to pick your battles. I promise this one isn’t worth it.

You’re a teacher, although arguably a pretty crappy one. I mean, you picked writing as a PUNISHMENT. There’s nothing like a teacher planting the notion in a young, fertile mind that writing is torture, a chore so tedious as to be reserved for mean-spirited discipline. Of course, this is punishment for only the most serious offenses...like when you do what your parents tell you rather than what your teacher demands.

Bravo! Way to squash the next generation of Faulkners, Twains, and Dickinsons. (Those are famous American writers for those of you who may have received an Edgecombe County education.)

Why don’t you focus on basic literacy and math skills. I mean that’s your job. You weren’t hired to teach social justice, feminism, or progressive thought, no matter how noble those causes may be.

Edgecombe County has an abysmal graduation rate of 79 percent. Only 25 percent of the county’s students are proficient in reading. Only 27 percent are proficient in math. Why are you wasting your time trying to dismantle a student’s family values? (Here is a link for these stats. Just in case you want to tell me how awesome the schools are here.)

Honey, there are bigger catfish to fry (and serve up with a heapin’ side of collard greens and some fried okra.) Let’s start with the basics.

Anyone else suddenly hungry?

Is it just me?

I’m not saying you don’t have your work cut out for you. Educating kids is a tough, tough job.  Darlin’, there’s a heck of a lot of work to do. It’s time to roll up your sleeves and get to it… Ma’am.

Silent Sam and the Things That Never Change

Friday, we dropped my oldest daughter off at UNC Chapel Hill for her first year of college. I had put off thinking about it all summer, stuffing down emotions, procrastinating in my usual way, promising to deal with it later.

That morning we packed the family car with everything she would need - at least a dozen pairs of shoes, a case of ramen, over-priced text books, strings of Christmas lights. There was only a small space left for her. She had to carry her potted cactus plants on her lap for the entire two-hour drive.

The weather was sunny. The temperature well into the mid-90s. It was hot work toting box after box up several flights of stairs to a tiny, drab dorm room where she will spend the next months. We lofted her bed, assembled a brand new futon, hung pictures.

It didn't take long for us all to get sweaty. It felt like labor. It made me remember another kind of labor, 36 hours of contractions to birth her.

Letting go of a child is hard work.

In my normal procrastinating way, I put off good-bye as long as possible, making her bed, unpacking her clothes. I actually unfolded, then carefully and deliberately refolded each piece before tucking it inside the dresser drawer. We bought sushi on Franklin Street, eating slowly, savoring each individual bite, dragging out dinner much longer than was necessary.

But you can't procrastinate forever, in spite of your best efforts. Good-bye was inevitable and the emotions came gurgling up from the place I had been stuffing them all summer long.

"I'm going to wait to have my emotional breakdown until I'm in the car," I told her.

"Me, too," she said throwing her arms around me as the tears started flowing. Hers first, then mine. Just like the day she was born.

And suddenly, in that moment, she wasn't the stunning and confident young woman I had lived with all summer. In her place was a toddler, the one who had held my neck with a death grip, clinging to me like a cuttlefish. She had super human strength, like her arms were made of suction cups, impossible to pry open.

I could have held her forever, but that isn't how things work.

The walk back to the car without her felt all wrong. In my heart, it still felt like I was walking away from that small, helpless toddler. How was I supposed to protect her from so far away?

My mothering instincts hadn't caught up to the fact that saber tooth tigers weren't lurking around every corner waiting to rip my baby to shreds. Although college might hold some danger, my rational brain knows she can handle it. She is a confident, mature, responsible young lady.

Children grow much faster than mothers are able to let go.

Monday night, she sent a message to the family chat. (Yes, we have an active family chat. I like to think that makes us the cool family.)

"Silent Sam is down! Protesters toppled the statue."

Silent Sam was an iconic Confederate monument on UNC's campus. The statue, an image of a Confederate soldier, had stirred up a lot of controversy in last year's Southern hysteria surrounding historic monuments.

We had passed him on our way to get sushi.

"I'm surprised nobody has torn him down yet," my daughter had commented.

All of us had known it was only a matter of time.

My husband quickly pulled up internet video footage of the mob shouting and kicking at the fallen statue.

Panic.

"Where are you?" My thumbs could barely type the message.

In that brief terror-filled moment before she answered, I thought my child might be in danger. In that instant, it didn't matter the reason behind the mob's actions. It didn't matter if they were right or wrong. It didn't matter whether I agreed with their reasoning or their morality. It didn't matter if I understood their motivations or if their ideologies conformed with mine.

The only thing that mattered, the ONLY THING...

Was whether my child was safe.

"I'm in my room. It’s a bit scary, being this close to that. I’ve never been this close to this stuff before."

She grew up in a small, quiet, Southern town. The rowdiest people get is right before the threat of snow flurries, as everyone rushes the local Piggly Wiggly for bread and milk.

"Stay in your room," I typed back, thumbs still trembling.

Mothers spend 18 years in vain attempts to keep their children safe, only to send them out into the thick of things where they are anything but.

And she is in the thick of things. In the thick of thinking and social change and questioning everything. And for her it is exciting.

Silent Sam was not a real person, but a representation, a symbol of the more than one thousand UNC students who fought on both sides of the War Between the States.

I can't help but empathize with Silent Sam's mother, symbolic just like her son.

Each of those mothers, on both sides of the conflict, spent 18 years keeping their children safe only to send them out into the thick of things, where they were anything but.

I suppose everyone knew it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of time before things had to come crashing down.

They were mothers from small towns like mine, where people don't get particularly rowdy. Those mothers must have felt the strong arms of their children as they said good-bye. Those sweet mothers must have thought of the toddler grip those arms once held on their skirts, their hands, their heart. They remembered the feel of chubby arms wrapped around them.

Did those mothers wish they could hold that child just a little longer?

The reasons behind The War must not have mattered so much.  It couldn't have mattered whether it was right or wrong, whether she agreed with it or not. It must not have mattered whether she understood the motivations or if her ideologies conformed with what others considered "right."

The only thing that mattered was the safety of her child.

Panic.

"Where are you?" she must have prayed each night.

Only some of those mothers never heard from their children again.

It is in a mother's nature to wish a safe and peaceful life for her children.

It is in a child's nature to make a difference, to change the world, to be right in the thick of things.

Time marches on.

Things change.

Some things never will.

What Do You See When You Look at a Confederate Monument?

The Durham monument before it was vandalized.

I was in Rochester, NY enjoying mild temperatures and low humidity when "protesters" clashed in Charlottesville, VA last weekend. On Monday, when Durham, NC vandals tore down a Confederate "monument", I was driving through picturesque Valley Forge, PA. I don't often head "up North" unless it is to visit family, mostly due to a serious lack of sweet tea.

In spite of enjoying weather that made me question my decision to live in the sweltering South, I was in a hurry to get home.

I am a Southerner through and through. I say "y'all" and "yonder" and often drop the "g" on the end of words like "huntin'" and "fishin'." Southern pride is a very real thing, even though it's hard for those of you without several generations of Southern DNA coursing through your veins to really understand. And surprisingly enough, it has nothing to do with white supremacy or racism, in spite of what the media might have you believe.

Over the past several days, we've witnessed a frenzied hysteria surrounding our Confederate symbols. Large "news" conglomerates like The New York Times have claimed that "Confederate monuments have always been symbols of white supremacy."

I understand some of the arguments for removing some of these symbols of the Confederacy. I can see the point often made about monuments to war criminals and conquered governments. Perhaps it is true that war monuments to Confederate generals are inappropriate additions to government spaces. Even if you attempt to rationalize the War Between the States being motivated by state's rights, it is hard to deny that the subject of slavery is intricately woven into the fabric of Southern motives for secession.

But these monuments and memorials that dot our Southern towns and cities aren't seen as symbols of hate by everyone. They haven't always or only been symbols of white supremacy. That is oversimplifying a complex issue.

Although the saying has been grossly overused, sometimes those symbols actually represent "heritage, not hate."

Stay with me. Hold your hate mail until the end.

Heritage, by definition, is the full range of our inherited traditions, monuments, objects, and culture. Southern heritage and culture is a rich tapestry of values and morals and way of life. It is far more than Confederate monuments, reenactments, and rebel flags. It is also courage, work ethic, family values, loyalty, and knowing your neighbor. It is honesty, front porch sitting, pecan pie, and sweet tea. And yes... it is Civil War battlegrounds and small town Confederate monuments. It is respect for our Confederate dead.

It is part of our Southern identity, and it is so entwined with the smell of jasmine and magnolias that you just can't pull one thread without the average Southerner being afraid the whole sweater will unravel.

And maybe the whole sweater will unravel. After the incident in Durham, the city of Baltimore removed their confederate statues under cover of darkness. And just this morning, we learned that a statue of Robert E. Lee was defaced in Duke University's beautiful chapel. Plus we are seeing petitions circulating all over social media feeds calling for the removal of memorials to fallen Confederate soldiers. There are threats that they will be removed by force if necessary.

In the small North Carolina town that I call home, we have our own Confederate memorial. It is a fountain that sits prominently on our lush green Town Common. The fountain is a symbol of Tarboro itself, and has adorned postcards, brochures, and magazines.

It was placed by the Daughters of the Confederacy in 1910 in memory of Henry Lawson Wyatt, the first Confederate soldier killed in the War Between the States. He once called Tarboro home, too. I wonder if he looked over his shoulder at Tarboro when he marched off to war. Did he have any inkling that he would never see it again? Did his mother?

The Durham monument that was toppled on Monday wasn't dedicated to Southern glory or military prowess or even secessionist ideals. The inscription on the front read "In Memory of the Boys Who Wore the Gray."

Boys who mostly never owned slaves. Boys who left home and never came back. Boys who suffered unspeakable hardships on the field of war and faced horrific deaths. Boys who believed they were honorably defending their homes and families.

So if all you can see when you look at a Confederate monument is hate, racism, and oppression, maybe you aren't looking hard enough. Some of us see death and senseless loss of life. We see husbands, sons, and brothers who died senselessly and horrifically. We want to remember them. It is the main reason we hold to our Southern Pride.

Because those young boys, the 620,000 of them who senselessly lost their lives on both sides, were really just pawns in a war for political power. And not one of them deserved the fate they received.

Here is what a lot of us see in those memorials and monuments that are being vandalized, kicked, and toppled amid screams of racism and hate...

Don't Panic! Southerners Do Know How to Handle Snow

Right now the South is bracing for Snowpocalypse 2017. A few days ago, when the weathermen first dared suggest snow was on it's way, the entire population of North Carolina lost its mind. The mad dash to the grocery store for bread and milk ensued, and the aisles at the local Piggly Wiggly became the cornucopia scene from The Hunger Games. Hell hath no fury like a silver-haired old lady trying to grab the last half-gallon of 2%. Heaven has no rage like the mayhem on the bread aisle.

Like most of my neighbors, I've been stalking The Weather Channel for the past 72 hours like a psycho lunatic, monitoring the maps and hourly forecast, trying to pin down just when the flaky white stuff will make it's appearance. The projected time of arrival and amount of accumulation has fluctuated significantly, but the consensus seems to be that the snow will be preceded by some rain showers starting sometime after 7 PM (which will likely wash away all of the salty brine that was sprayed on the roads two days ago).

In a true Southern overreaction, the public schools have decided to close two hours early. Just in case they aren't able to get everyone safely home before it starts raining at dinner time.

This is why our Northern cousins scoff at us. We over react. Not just to snow, but to the mere mention of snow. Days in advance.

And then we don't know how to plow it, or drive in it, or send our kids to school in it. Just a few slushy flakes and we're declaring a state of emergency and cancelling everything. It's like we don't know what do with it.

But we do.

Sure there is a mad dash to the grocery store for bread and milk and alcohol, but it's mostly because we're preparing for a grand party. We know that life will basically stop for at least 24 hours (but probably more), that we will hunker down, wear warm socks, and binge-watch Netflix. It will be glorious as we stoke up a fire, eat some milk sandwiches, kick back and relax. We won't be able to go anywhere, after all. Everything will close. Everything. The stores. The schools. The highways.

But before the relaxing, we'll pile on 27 layers of thin cotton clothing and wrap our feet in plastic bags (There's really no reason to own snow gear when we only see snow a few days each year) to venture outside. We will pelt each other with slush balls and make icy, muddy snow angels. We will catch flakes on our tongues and make sad excuses for snowmen. We will find a way to sled on even a half inch of slushy ice, not on fancy sleds but on trash can lids and laundry baskets and cardboard boxes, flocking to the overpasses if we have to (Actual hills are hard to find in the South East). Or we'll just hook our kids up to an ATV or the back of a pick-up and drag 'em around. Southerners know how to have fun. (This is also why the local hospitals must remain open during snowstorms. No one said we were smart. Have you seen our standardized test scores?)

We all know that the snow isn't going to be that serious. Heck, the temperature is supposed to be back in the mid fifties by Wednesday. No one is going to be trapped inside for days, forced to eat their pets or burn the furniture to survive.

But there's more to life than just surviving, on a snow day or any day. It's something we Southerners understand. It's why life seems to move slower here. We know that life isn't always about hurrying to get somewhere you aren't. Southerners know how to have fun. We know how to party. It's a tradition we hold as dear as sweet tea, ball caps, and Mama's fried chicken. That's why all y'all (This is proper Southern grammar. Please hold your scathing emails.) head down here for Spring Break and Summer Vacation. We not only know how to "raise hell" but we also know how to relax, take things slow, appreciate the finer things in life.

This weekend those finer things will include homemade snow cream, hastily built snow people, rosy cheeks on happy children, and a day off. So scoff in wintry-driving self righteousness if you must, grumpy Northerners. But I think we Southerners know exactly how to handle snow.

Y'all should be jealous.