Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D., N.Y.) on Tuesday night suggested that the United States can only heal once “oppressed” states in the south are “liberated.”
“Which means the only way that our country’s going to heal is through the actual liberation of southern states,” she said. “The actual liberation of the poor, the actual liberation of working people from economic, social, and racial oppression. That’s the only way.”
(https://news.yahoo.com/aoc-nation-only-heal-once- / January 13, 2021)
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I have no intention of answering Rep. Cortez head-on in her description of those within the South. For what it’s worth I’d like to describe to you what it has been for me to be born and raised in the region known for country music, sweet tea, and a love that leans heavily towards obsession for college football. Or as I like to refer to the South—home.
In a lot of ways, the stereotypes of the South are true…at least in my experience. Born and raised in NE Florida, just south of the Georgia line, was to be inundated with the sounds of country music. I learned quickly from some neighborhood friends that this music is best enjoyed in a rusty truck going down the road while spitting out the window. I also learned shortly thereafter to make sure the window was down or the enjoyment was dramatically lessened and a bit more wet.
Sweet tea was not just a drink of choice but a must-have if the restaurant was to stay in business. To not have it available was to be labeled a “Yankee establishment” and one dared not enter such a place ever again. For even in the pre-social media times, this type of news would spread quickly and was consequential to all involved. (May those “Yankee-establishments” forever rest in peace.)
And just alongside that obsession for college football (or as I like to call it—Saturday religion) was Mayberry. You know the town from the show of shows in the South, The Andy Griffith Show. As a kid, the black-and-white episodes my dad had us watch confused me to believe that people during those glorious days of the past could not see in color. Boy, was I relieved when season 6 was placed into the VCR and Andy, Barney, and the rest of the town could now see in vibrant technicolor just like me.
This quaint group of people included the sheriff and deputy who were more than partners but friends sitting on the porch singing songs after Sunday dinner. You had the town drunk, the one-chair barber, the funny-named mechanic, and the revolving cast of characters from girlfriends to visitors from the mountains.
These mountain folk were always recognized as a little different and maybe even a little backwards. The Darlings were one such family where the musical ability was high, but the IQ of social norms was not. In one such episode, Mr. Darling tries to win over Andy’s Aunt Bee with the strength of his shoulders followed by a quick proposal. Yet he seems shocked to find out that Aunt Bee had to love him in return for them to get hitched.
Another one of these visitors was Ernest T. Bass. As I’ve watched these reruns with my own children, Ernest T. has become their favorite. A mixture of mountain man who likes to throw rocks through windows and a tender-hearted soul who desires people to accept him, Mr. Bass was a cocktail of both completely different and somewhat familiar.
Come to think of it when you spend 8 seasons with the characters of a TV show it’s funny how familiar even those deemed “different” seem to become. Where once the city folks of Mayberry saw Ernest T. like the man who once lived under a rock with a possum, they begin to see him as a man who just wants to win the heart of a woman and be married. The same storyline that Andy, Barney, and seemingly every other man in Mayberry was also living and seeking.
As I consider my time living in the South that AOC deems “oppressed” and in need of “liberation,” I’ll have to admit I don’t see it that way. It may be because I have lived among the characters of the South my entire life that even those I once deemed a bit different have now become familiar. Certainly, some things are still true of the region—manners are taught, religion is at least given lip-service by most, and Waffle House is still considered fine dining. But when all is said and done, I don’t see oppression. I see a culturally loving people who are greatly misunderstood.
Some, like AOC, misunderstand them to be the “mountain folk” of backwards politics and lifestyles. Others consider everyone in the South as “good ol’ boys” and “Daisy Dukes” wrapped up in the hypocrisy of honky-tonk life on Saturday before dragging into church on Sunday. Yet, in spite of both of these sweeping generalizations from those who live elsewhere, I see them a different way.
I see the majority of people where I live as those who have a religious heritage yet are seeking a way to straddle the fence of where they come from and where they want to be in this sinful, fallen world. Struggling to find their place in life between what they consider God’s country and their possible mansion over the hilltop.
In other words, I don’t see them much different than myself at times in my own life.
And, to be honest, they aren’t much different than you either no matter where you live—if only you took the time to spend a few seasons with them as well.
Or, in my case, almost 34 years and, Lord willing, a few more to go.
“For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God;”
Romans 3:23
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