Well, now that I'm home, I find myself wondering what to do with this blog. My first thought is that I won't have all of the captivating, entertaining, amusing stories to share anymore since I'm in Arkansas, not France. But my second thought is, why can't life be captivating and entertaining and amusing right here, where I live? It's not like I don't notice the little things that make life, well, life -- I just don't write about them as much as I ought to.
Speaking of observations, someone asked me last Sunday how I felt when I first saw the American flag hanging in Customs after landing in the States again, and I realized that I honestly couldn't remember seeing it. It's not that I'm not patriotic. I was very happy to be back on American soil. But the first thing I remember noticing in the Dallas airport wasn't the flag; it was being surrounded by that thick southern accent again. (The second thing? Spray tans and tacky attempts at being fashionable. Americans have a long way to go.) What made me feel even more at home was overhearing a couple of strangers deep in a conversation about South Arkansas farming and chicken breeds while waiting to board the plane to Little Rock. Sure, the topic seemed pretty natural. But two total strangers striking up a conversation? Hadn't seen that in months!
Another thing I hadn't seen in months? Wal-mart. I must say, when I ventured out into American society (i.e. Wal-mart) on my second day home, even the rednecks amused me more than usual (and usually they do a pretty good job). I never thought I'd miss those impromptu family reunions that always appear somewhere near the checkout lines, either, but it was strangely comforting to see people talking and hugging and laughing together again, talking about who's cooking what for the 4th of July and who's going to so and so's birthday party next week, like warm-blooded Southern people do. French grocery stores never seemed to have that same down-home, familial neighborhood feeling that our Wal-Marts and Knight's and Krogers have so much of.
Even our summer recreational habits have their own special Southern charm. For example, when I think of the lake, I think of ham sandwich and potato chip picnics and stuffy, dirty state park bathrooms. I also see the beer cans and cigarette butts lying half-buried in the sand next to wrinkled grandmas half-hanging out of their bikinis, and I remember how I always end up learning the full name of every kid within a 100 foot radius - complete with all of their colorful prefixes and suffixes. My trips to the lake have definitely provided me with a handy collection of truly Southern snapshot memories, but that's not all. They've also helped shape my standards when it comes to family relationships. The way I see it, as long as my grandmother isn't the half-clad 80 year old on the beach with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, swearing and yelling at her grandkids to get their a**es out of the water, I figure I'm doing pretty good. All in all, I may leave the lake having seen more than I wanted to see and having heard more than I wanted to hear, but at least I have stories to tell.
So, yes, I knew I'd missed Southern culture, but I guess I just didn't realize how much. Now that I'm thinking about it, though, I do remember talking a lot about it when I was in France. Whenever I made generalizations about American culture or my personal background, I would always have to clarify that I was talking mostly about the South. I remember thinking that it felt strange. I hadn't expected to talk about America that way because I had only thought of myself as an American at first, not so much an Arkansan or a Southerner. I realized for the first time that you still can't describe American culture to a foreigner without making the North/South distinction (even more so than East/West). And I also realized that I'm really and truly not ashamed of being from the South and calling myself an Arkansan.
Sure, we've got our issues, but doesn't everybody? It's the last thing on my mind when I'm sittin' on the porch swing drinkin' sweet tea listenin' to the cicadas sing. Call us uncultured if you want, but you don't know what you're missin'. I sure didn't.
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