Song of the South, Minus the Blatant Racism

It's cold in New York.

The teenager girls on the subway are huddled together, despite the open seats, rubbing shoulders and tapping their snow-laden shoes on the subway floor. Since I refuse to stand unless forced (hey, my job is hard sometimes), I watch them from my corner seat closest to the doors. They are yammering on about some other girls they know, poking fun and passing judgment. I roll my eyes and return to my book, but the teasing still nags at my head.

New York City inhabitants can be mean.

So I escaped. I drove with my boyfriend down to Savannah, Ga.

Last Friday night at a friend's potluck, I told my plan to the group and was rewarded with a chorus of "Why Savannah?"

Let me explain.

The South is much like the Midwest, populated with large amounts of people who note the joy of having, uh, manners and delight in being friendly. There also exists that soul of the South, that upbringing that doesn't mean four extra-curricular activities and piles of homework. Kids grow up in a city/cities rich in history, as well as culture that portrays the struggles of the Civil War, something that is still prevalent today.

In no particular order I experienced doors held for me, directions given freely, good drivers who weren't rude, cops who paid attention, streets that were clearly marked, talkative sales people and cheap drinks. Some inhabitants had drawls, some had twangs, others clearly had clipped New England accents (tourists), but were so caught up in the general camaraderie that they just went with it. Savannah is a city filled with cheer, brought up from the ashes of Sherman's siege in 1864.

What does this mean, really, that I am rehashing the capabilities of the Southland?

Perhaps that up North we've clearly lost the ability to speak more than five kind words in a row to someone sitting four feet from us. That holding a door from someone becomes more painful than sepuku. "Please" is a six letter expression that hardly passes the lips of those waiting impatiently for their Starbucks decaf-no-foam-extra-hot soy latte.

I'd kill for a little kindness. This is my pleading letter to New Yorker's and beyond...don't fulfill the stereotype! Let the goodness shine through, if only for the sake of my sanity and the person standing next to you. And yourself.