No one is born looking and acting like a Georgetown student. Regardless of where you come from, you have to lose a bit of your identity in order to assimilate to life here. After a few weeks here you realize that your collar has crept up and you’re talking like your new friends from New Jersey.
When I came to Georgetown from my suburban hometown of McDonough, Ga. I unconsciously tried to assimilate to my new environment. In a matter of weeks I managed to get rid of what little accent that I had. My southern colloquialisms were replaced with those of my new friends. I bought my first pair of UGG boots, and while I never went as far as embracing the polo and pearls look, I found myself dressing differently. My previously colorful wardrobe was replaced with black and denim.
I actively tried to show that I was not like other Southerners. I found myself making fun of things and activities that I once participated in. I tried to prove to myself and others that I was essentially a “Northern Southerner.” I just happened to grow up in the South, but embody the ideology, and tastes of a more cultured and refined northerner.
“When are you coming home?” members of my family would ask me.
“I don’t know,” I quickly would respond and attempt to move the conversation in another direction. I didn’t want to tell them that I didn’t want to come home. In a way, I viewed myself as being beyond my hometown.
I wanted to spend as little time in Georgia as possible. I was now a Georgetown student, and did not want to revert back to my childhood home. I only visited home three times my freshman year. I quickly jumped at the opportunity to work in D.C. during the summer. The entire summer I slaved away at the Residence Hall Office getting paid minimum wage, but anything was better than going back to the provincial, backward South.
The last few times I went home I noticed that I was far more at ease there. People in the South walk, talk, and live life far slower than people in D.C. In this city it feels like most people are moving at a constant pace. While some might attribute the slow pace of living in the South to the fact that there’s essentially nothing to do, Southerners take the time to enjoy life. If enjoying life means getting plastered and going to the racetrack, then so be it. I used to find this provincial, but now I view it as freedom.
I came to this realization visiting home this past winter break. One night a friend and I were sitting in my room. Completely bored, we decided to drive the forty-five minutes to Atlanta, rolling in the Camry down Peachtree St. We parked in a random parking lot, and went into an adult novelty store. We left the store empty-handed to find a boot on the tire of the car. Paying the fine and warding off several homeless men, we drove home. It was the most fun I had in a long while. It was a simple, ridiculous night.
While I do not share the ideas and opinions common to Southerners, growing up below the Mason-Dixon line defined who I am. I walk slowly, taking in all that is around me. I smile at people I don’t know. Being Southern is a mentality, a mentality that consists of being satisfied with the simple things in life.
I can be a Georgetown student and maintain my Southern identity. I don’t get embarrassed when I pronounce a word with a southern drawl. A month ago I bought my first country music album. True, it was the Dixie Chicks, but it was a baby step into the world of country music. I am also in the process of learning the rules of football, and was surprised to find out that sweet tea actually is good.
While I prefer my life here, sometimes I miss Southern living. Sometimes on a Saturday night you just want to drive down the block to Wal-Mart, check off another item on your “101 ways to get kicked out of Wal-Mart” list and go to the Waffle House with your friends, even if they drive pick-up trucks.
