Jennifer Hendricks

From Away 2,000 miles. No, forgive me, over 2,000 miles. Now that is a lot of ground to cover between one coast to the other. But I didn’t feel like I had come that far. Rather, I felt as though I’d come in a spaceship, at the speed of light, in a cryogenic state. I felt older. I lived out the typical American trope: fall in love, get pregnant, and marry earlier than planned. The marrying didn’t happen until we had traveled to his hometown to, you know, to “get on our feet.” Only his hometown was as far away as we could possibly drive, in the state of South Carolina. And so I worked to assimilate the best I could. Get the feel of the city, its people, its vibe. Little did I know that Carolinians don’t have vibes; they have manners. My southern California looseness was forced to take a shower and straighten up, forced to put in some Visine and chew on a mint. And then, I could have sworn I heard someone call me a “Northerner.” But no, how could that be? I came from out west. I was soon made to understand that there is the North, there is the south, and that’s pretty much it. My “Yankee” accent didn’t help me much when I tried to explain. I had the popular-at-the-time song “Redneck Woman” sung AT me by local women. When I asked why this #3 shit was all over the walls of every fast food place in town I received terrible, reproachful looks. The symbol of the cross was evoked as if to ward off a vampire. I was a monster to them. How was I to know that auto racing was parallel to religion here? When I had my first baby I remember being stopped in mid-stride at the hospital for a check-up. “Where is his socks and hat?” An answer was demanded. Since it was mild October weather I didn’t think such accessories were necessary. I learned that they were indeed necessary, at all times. I was told what kind of mother I was when I failed at burping. Southern relatives sighed and looked heavenward while they ripped my son out of my arms, flipped him on his belly, and smacked his back repetitively. They smirked when the gas was expelled. He was handed warily back. And God help me if I put him on the floor. In California I was used to dressing nicely in clothes that were structured and stylish. Makeup, hair, and nails were all things that required daily upkeep. Uh-uh. Not in South Carolina. These were all signs of a fallen woman. A trashy woman. Over the years, my dresses and skirts lived on their hangers permanently. My heels were no match for the copious amounts of sand blown in from the Carolina sandhills. And the thick, soupy humidity was surprisingly efficient at removing any and all makeup. I carried around a washcloth at first to blot it. Later I carried a washcloth around to wipe it off entirely. I was educated in the dual arts of manners and doublespeak. After a negative response to their seemingly safe question of “how are you,” I’d get in reply a “well bless your heart!” At first I was warmed by the comfort of those words. It took my husband to tell me that those words were oftentimes purely sarcastic. “Not for me!” I thought. But I began to listen more closely, to see that mischievous sparkle in their eye. I finally accepted my defeat. I try to remember that Californians can be assholes too. Everyone is a little stiff and taken aback in the beginning by strangers from “away.” I learned to raise my voice, to dig my flats into the dirt and take a stand. A strange and marvelous southern protocol requires a good fight before friendship. I am sure to give it to them.