Am I a local yet?
During the 267 days I have lived in the South, I’ve looked for changes in my conduct that might indicate I’ve gone native. It’s pretty much just an unscientific behavioral study of myself.
In some instances, such as with my style of speech, I’ve noticed that I’m averse to change. I still cannot say “y’all.” It feels forced, you guys. And I pointedly refuse to pronounce street names such as Ponce de Leon like a local (it’s Leh-OHN; he was from Spain) even though my far more adaptable 16-year-old tells me I should, because that’s how you say it in these parts.
However, this Cardinals Nation gal did say “we” when talking about the sorry state of the Atlanta Braves. “We’re not doing so well,” I said to my husband the other day. He called me on it. Yeah, well, shouldn’t we root for something down here in our new city?
So, you see, I am trying to assimilate. Especially when it comes to food. Lately, I’ve subjected myself to a lot of curious-to-me food combinations that a good handful of Southerners have grown up with.
Example: mayonnaise and bananas on white bread. It's Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s favorite . If Dale likes it, time for me to try it. We even whipped up a few of these sandwiches for the newsroom and passed samples around. Boy, did that get a bunch of folks waxing nostalgic. "It's just like I remember," they said. I can swallow a peanut butter and banana sandwich, but mayo and banana … I would not, could not — even with Duke's mayo.
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