I am southern, and I am from the country. Our (mobile) home was surrounded on 3 sides by farmland and the other was a swamp. Everything was 20 minutes away, except for the corner store my grandpa’s brother ran. Blue jeans and boots and flannel shirts weren’t a grunge fashion trend for us, it was work clothes. My neck has been red from working in the hot sun all day.
- I’ve worked in fields, picking beans, checking watermelons, squash, zucchini, and cucumbers.
- I grew up on Johnny Cash, both Hank Williams (Hank III notwithstanding), Garth Brooks, Alan Jackson, and all the country music.
- As a kid (and maybe still as an adult), I have watched professional wrestling in just my underpants, sweating into the couch and cheering for Ric Flair.
- I have cursed General William Tecumseh Sherman for burning our beautiful homeland.
- I devoured Mark Twain’s colorful stories of life that hasn’t changed much in the 125 years or so since he wrote.
- I have celebrated my southern heritage my entire life. I thought I knew all about my culture and what that entailed, from tailgating (I’ve even done so at church after service) to cooking barbecue to bow ties and khaki shorts and red Solo cups.
That is,until a couple of weeks ago. A colleague of mine posted an article quoting Flannery O’Connor. In addition to confirming my fears and suspicions about ministry in the South, it also opened my eyes to a part of my culture that I had neglected: diversity in literature.
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