Accent on the South

Warning: The following article is secular. It has nothing to do with Orthodoxy. It was, however, the impetus for the Orthodoxy in DIXIE article. (File it under the “Etc” column.)

What a hoot! All the mud-slinging that surrounded the Confederate battle flag atop the Statehouse in Columbia, South Carolina, got me thinking: Why is it that we didn’t hear the middle class native Southern voices within that forensic roar? Perhaps the answer lies buried under the Southern accent. Mind you, I speak not of blue-blood Southerners, but of the majority of the native South, the lower and middle class natives.

I was reared in a small town near Charlotte, North Carolina. Growing up, I never met a Jew, much less a Muslim. Lutherans were rare enough in my hometown, much less Roman Catholics. Basically, we were Baptists and Methodists, blacks and whites. With bussing, my school was 51% black. I remember being bullied on the first grade playground, daily, by two black boys. We laughed about it in high school. Save one occasion, I don’t recall the prevalence of any Confederate flag, battle or otherwise, from my youth.

But I do know what it means to be a Southerner. I know what it means to be prejudiced. Yet I will have to provide greater detail before you can judge me in that regard. You see, I grew up in the 60’s & 70’s. My folks were cotton mill workers. I know what it means to long to leave the South. I also know what it means to feel blessed to come home.

My folks rarely went shopping on Saturday. That was the day that all the blacks shopped in our hometown. We would drive through the venerable old business buildings on our way to the lake. Sure nuf, town was teaming with darker skins. My dad said they all knew each other. It sure looked like it — they waved, smiled, greeted and visited with each other. In reality, I suspect they were just growing up black in the South. Looked to me like white folks did the same, down at the lake on Saturdays.

In my youth, I always believed my dad was prejudiced against blacks. Like many Southern white men, that’s the way he talked. Upon getting a part-time job in the mill, I was shocked to observe his interactions with colored folks. It was downright good natured and friendly! They all seemed to love each other. It was more than a bit confusing. Although I spoke the language, I’d not yet acquired the accent. I longed to leave.

While studying genetics in high school biology, we learned that if one had a black ancestor the biological evidence might not show up till as much as a hundred years later. (I’ve no idea if this is true, but the teacher said it was possible.) After dinner that night, I tested my dad. Relating the details from the class, I asked him what he’d do if mom gave birth to a black baby. Again, I was surprised. He said, “I’d love that child … care for him … give him everything I have. I’d kill your Mama, though. Ain’t no way she could convince me that that happened a hundred years ago.” We laughed. I’m positive he later told that story to his black friends at work. No offense taken, it was all in the accent.

As rock-n-roll died and disco loomed, we entered a grey area. The line between black and white was less visible. Heck, nothing was very clear except the need to dance. The high school gymnasium would be filled to capacity following another losing football game. The whites would be dancing with the whites; the blacks with the blacks. But we were on the same page of music. We were together but separate. Of course, the whites kept a longing eye toward the blacks. Else how would we ever learn the new dance moves? (I must point out that success in this regard was not always optimum.)

With disco came new battles. Blacks and whites were found mingling more and more. The overwhelming majority of music was being sung and performed by black artists. Frustrated dancers (aka white boys) were spending tons of money on black music. White deejays could make the dark crowd move. Truth be known, we all probably became too accepting in those early naive days of disco. It was a time of overwhelming change. For a while, we were all speaking the same language. Well, almost all. There were the rebels one might see at the County Fair or the Carowinds theme park. These wore black tee shirts with white letters “Disco Sucks.” These folks, I always imagined, were probably the same ones who paraded the Confederate battle flag with hatred. They obviously couldn’t dance (to the beat of any drummer).

I thought I hated the South. Television shows such as “The Dukes of Hazard,” “The Beverly Hillbillies,” even “Andy Griffith” allowed me to observe the way, apparently, the outside world saw us. I wanted no part of it. This, coupled with my perceived parental prejudices, drew me more and more toward black folks and “outsiders” (e.g., Roman Catholics and Yankees). I had an uncle who lived in Secaucus, New Jersey. Every now and then, we’d visit him and tour New York City. Ah, away from the South! My only confusion lie in the fact that prejudices seemed to abound up north! Ours seemed tame by comparison.

Needless to say, due to the times and my liberal education, I never gave much thought to the Confederate flag. Never owned one, much less argued over one. Except, that one occasion. You see, our high school had a “race riot” every year. It was an annual observance. There was tension, some fisticuffs, racial slurs … then it was over. No one ever seemed in agreement as to the catalyst of this yearly event. Except in 1978. That was the year that, apparently, some ol’ redneck had climbed up onto the water tower and put up the Confederate battle flag. That was the most confusing “race riot” of all. This was, after all, during the heyday of disco. We were all dancing to the same beat (except for the small “Disco Sucks” contingent). We thought we’d put all that racial stuff to rest. Suddenly, that flag — to the indoctrinated black kids — represented the worst side of all whites. To us, their rage at the water tower display washed away the disco lovefest. Gosh, we were different after all. If memory serves me, that was the year that all the white students were called into the auditorium, with the blacks being segregated to the gym. I don’t remember what was said. I do remember the blacks were allowed to go home early. In a few days, it was all a footnote; a footnote to our Southern accent.

The summer of my freshman year of college, the Southwestern Book Company sent me to sell books door-to-door in the Northwoods of Wisconsin. I had finally escaped the South. Though I loved Wisconsin, the accent was much different there. Many were prejudiced against the Indians (aka Native Americans). In fact, I actually met people who had never seen a black person except on television! The friendly folks of Northern Wisconsin got a kick out of the way I talked. They said they could listen to me for hours. On more than a few occasions, someone would comment on how prejudiced we all were in the South. These were usually the same folks who’d never seen a black man. It was like the pot calling the kettle Indian.

After graduating, I shared a house with a black roommate. Finally, I had arrived! Well, not really. He and I soon discovered that no matter how “hip” you are, you can still be prejudiced. I shared with him all the racial jokes I knew. He actually laughed! I couldn’t understand the white jokes he shared with me. Sort of like the machinations of dancing, I suppose. I was too close to my own blindness to follow the steps.

These days, when I go back home, my Mom or Dad is always relating greetings from some black acquaintance with whom they spoke recently at the store. (Everyone shops on Saturdays now. I’ve even seen blacks at the lake.) At least the grapevine I’ve known still carries racially prejudiced humour. Heck, black comedians have it down to a fine art; Jeff Foxworthy makes us all laugh. Catching a glimpse of an old “Andy Griffith” presents no struggle as in days past. Face it, we’ve all been through a lot.

But my point in saying all of this is that, I don’t appreciate the talking heads of the major media getting involved in stirring up trouble in the South. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect that one of them climbed above the South Carolina Statehouse and planted that flag for their own selfish reasons. Rather, it had been flying there since nearly the day I was born. It never seemed to be a Southern issue. In fact, I’m not convinced it is now.

A few years ago I performed a wedding in Columbia. There were blacks and whites in attendance. We were within eyesight of the flag. And, yes, being a Southern town in the summer, there was what we used to call “disco music” blaring in the distance. The following morning, my family toured downtown Columbia. We saw more blacks than whites (it was Monday, mind you). And there, above the Capitol building was the Confederate battle flag. It was, more than likely, hoisted to third rank prominence by a black State employee. Pouring out of the Statehouse was several bus loads of children, mostly black. Thanks to the media and political indoctrination of the times, I was in search of disgruntled, unhappy, protesting faces. I saw none. Yet, on the way home, I saw a few cars with the bumper sticker “Take It Down.” These people seemed opposite — but similar — to the “Disco Sucks” crowd. Both were angry; both minorities.

Those of us who’ve learned to make do with past and present differences know that everything is not black and white. Rather, it’s about being separate and together, together. It comes with experience, absent an outside agenda. Why, just the other day, I saw a black man driving around in a pickup truck with a Confederate flag decal. Those of you not from around here just wouldn’t understand. Frankly, my dear outsiders, it’s a Southern thing. In the working-man South, among native blacks and whites, it’s a confederacy of accent.