The South Ain't Riz
The best of the South—and there is plenty—is often obscured by its worst. It won’t take the average visitor very long to realize that the South’s biggest enemy is its attitude, not so much about the present, but about the past.
When you hear someone say “They burnt my house,” relax. It won’t be on the nightly news. (If it is, then you’ve saved yourself some stress anyway.) The house they are referring to is most likely the family shack burnt by “damnyankees” back in the “War for States’ Rights.” Nothing “Civil” about it.
It’s not that atrocities were not committed. It was a war and atrocities are an inseparable part of such activity. It’s the sense that what happened way over a century ago should have any bearing on what you feel today.
The issues were obviously taken personally then, but there is no reason—no reason at all—to keep making those issues a valid influence in the present. But try as you might, when faced with one of these “The South Will Rise” fanatics, you will never get them to change their point of view.
But it is possible to shut them up.
Robert was an ex-Navy midshipman who bragged about living on the same patch of land for “over 150 years.” He was 27, but he had “lived” on that land since the 1820s. He constantly spoke of “the stolen lands,” “the raping of our women” and “how the North won’t ever let us forget the War.” If we spoke for more than 20 minutes, he’d unleash a salvo worthy of a “Son of the Confederacy.”
Drove. Me. Nuts. If it weren’t for the fact that he knew how to play Shogi and was the most intense sub-creation writer I ever met, I would have avoided him like I avoid stabbing my eyes with forks and pro wrestling.
His day came. Over a very early breakfast, he went off on the dreaded subject. His whole spiel was coming out like a well-oiled tapeworm when I cut him off.
“Is there an organization like the Sons of the Confederacy in the North?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It’s called the Grand Army of the Republic.”
“How many members does it have?”
He smirked. “About 500.”
I took a stab at it. “How many members do the Sons have?”
Pounding the table, he crowed “Over 22,000 strong!”
I had him. “So who won’t let who forget the freaking war?”
I never heard another word on the subject. Not that we spent much time together after that.
When you hear someone say “They burnt my house,” relax. It won’t be on the nightly news. (If it is, then you’ve saved yourself some stress anyway.) The house they are referring to is most likely the family shack burnt by “damnyankees” back in the “War for States’ Rights.” Nothing “Civil” about it.
It’s not that atrocities were not committed. It was a war and atrocities are an inseparable part of such activity. It’s the sense that what happened way over a century ago should have any bearing on what you feel today.
The issues were obviously taken personally then, but there is no reason—no reason at all—to keep making those issues a valid influence in the present. But try as you might, when faced with one of these “The South Will Rise” fanatics, you will never get them to change their point of view.
But it is possible to shut them up.
Robert was an ex-Navy midshipman who bragged about living on the same patch of land for “over 150 years.” He was 27, but he had “lived” on that land since the 1820s. He constantly spoke of “the stolen lands,” “the raping of our women” and “how the North won’t ever let us forget the War.” If we spoke for more than 20 minutes, he’d unleash a salvo worthy of a “Son of the Confederacy.”
Drove. Me. Nuts. If it weren’t for the fact that he knew how to play Shogi and was the most intense sub-creation writer I ever met, I would have avoided him like I avoid stabbing my eyes with forks and pro wrestling.
His day came. Over a very early breakfast, he went off on the dreaded subject. His whole spiel was coming out like a well-oiled tapeworm when I cut him off.
“Is there an organization like the Sons of the Confederacy in the North?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It’s called the Grand Army of the Republic.”
“How many members does it have?”
He smirked. “About 500.”
I took a stab at it. “How many members do the Sons have?”
Pounding the table, he crowed “Over 22,000 strong!”
I had him. “So who won’t let who forget the freaking war?”
I never heard another word on the subject. Not that we spent much time together after that.
posted by GCSchmidt | 7:12 AM
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