Until I moved to South Dakota—I
Was just thirteen, then. I was—you might say—
A novelty. Very nice, that. It gave me
A sense of place in being out of place.
Years later, at that college—How was I
To know there was guilt being Southern, that
A limit on my social standing—mind
So filled with culture notwithstanding. I
Did try to change, to smooth my talk, to make
Straight my meandering speech. Lost the cause.
My heart was cheered by my kind friend—he said
I was quite different from the rednecks,
Hillbillies, “good ole’ boys.” I did believe
Him. Got used to my rambling cadence, thought
I was okay to walk about and talk
In good society—You understand,
I think, now, why when she said, “I’m glad
I’m not a Southerner,” what I heard was,
“I’m glad I’m not like you.”
[This poem hurt to write more than I thought it would.]
