Upon hearing that I’m from New Jersey, people immediately think of the garbage spilling out from MTV’s Jersey Shore. I can assure you that I do not fist pump my way to class. I do not style my hair in a poof. I have not and never will wear Ed Hardy. Most importantly: I do not G.T.L.
Before I start ranting and raving to you, I should properly introduce myself. I could start with the basics: hometown ( Mayville , New Jersey), age (22), hair color (blonde). But those stats don’t mean much. You still wouldn’t know who I am if you tripped over me. Most of you, by now, will have stopped reading, thinking that I’m just some blonde chick from Jersey.
The town I come from is actually considered to be a part of the Jersey Shore. When you think of the Shore, you’re thinking of a group of people who flock to the beach every summer. These people aren’t from Jersey; they are just fools. The people who live there year round are relatively decent, moral people. But there’s one thing I’ve learned for certain: Life back home is exponentially different from the good old South.
I knew I’d left home for sure the first day I stepped onto N.C. State’s campus. In the first class of the day, I walked into a huge lecture hall in Dabney and was drowned in a sea of camo and sorority shirts. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my bathing suit and cotton cover-up dress; I had just left the pool. I received some very interesting looks as I hiked up about 15 levels to a nice seat in the corner. My appearance was apparently so out of the ordinary it interrupted a degree plan-of-work discussion in the group of girls next to me. They proceeded to welcome me to the class with that subtle Southern Belle snarl. I guess beach apparel isn’t acceptable in the city.
My years since then have been filled with a plethora of North vs. South realizations. My personal favorite occurred when I met my boyfriend. He hails from a small town nestled in the sand hills of North Carolina. Considering he grew up on a huge farm and comes with a thick Southern drawl and a pick-up truck, it’s pretty safe to say that he was completely different from anyone I’ve ever known. I’ve only ever known the typical Northern jerks deserving of restraining orders and guys who take twice as long as I do to get ready. A Southern gentleman was a welcomed change.
I’d never gone after a Southern boy before. I figured the best way to get his attention would be through channeling my inner Southern Belle. Our first night downtown together I lost my temper–or as you Southern folk say: my ‘timper’ — and let’s just say I got into a bit of a disagreement with some girls at the bar. The next time we hung out, he drove me home like a true gentleman, only to be greeted by a cop waiting at my doorstep—an unrelated incident. Needless to say, my Southern Belle act was an epic fail. I just don’t have it in me.
What does any of this have to do with you as the reader? I’m so glad you asked! Every Wednesday I will be bringing you my thoughts. After living up north for 18 years and then living here for four, I come to you with a perspective I hope you will appreciate. Maybe through my words you’ll come to appreciate some Southern specialties you take for granted, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll come to find not all Yankees are the plague of the earth that they appear to be
