Let me speak, forget the duel

It used to be that a man would invite an offender of his name to a duel in order to defend his honor and pride. Or sometimes he’d just shoot him. Alexander Hamilton died this way. This was general accepted practice. Opinions and divergence in beliefs were rarely accepted as they are, supposedly, today.

Of course, duels don't exist today, thank God, for I was involved in an argument that insulted my honor. Two hundred years ago, murder would have been justified although that would have resulted in a very anti-Christmas dinner at Christmastime. All talk about love, peace and brotherhood would have been forgotten.

Most people do not know to what extent America is a wonderfully broad and diverse land. There is such a difference between the Northeast, Southeast, mid-West, California (heretofore known as the land of fruits and nuts), and the only place you need a passport and language skills to travel, Miami. I really do believe, being the ignorant American I supposedly am, we don’t need to leave this country to explore different cultures.

One region in particular, the Southeast, held out its arms and welcomed me for two years as I traveled to many of its cities and towns. I got to know the region as well as can be expected in that time. I will never be a Georgian, Mississippian or Carolinian. I am a New Englander, with a Jewish last name, living in Miami, who happens to be half Spanish. That being said it, I was accepted in the land of Baptists, barbecue, Bubbas and football.

The real South extends from Richmond down to Jacksonville (and no further), west over to Pensacola and into Mobile, then over on to Vicksburg, north to Jackson, up to Memphis, Nashville, Knoxville, Chattanooga, and finally back over to the Carolinas. That’s it. Texas is its own world, as most Texans would gleefully admit. Northern Virginia is not South. Most of Florida is a land that God forgot, except the Tampa area. Kentucky is, well, Kentucky. Today’s Mason Dixon line is not what it once was.

So, while I recalled and bored most at Christmas dinner with how lucky I was to have traveled extensively throughout the real South, some invitees were kind enough to show mild amusement, others continued to dive into my mom’s lamb, potatoes and salad with pure Christmastime delight.

As the wine began lifting my spirits I let the tongue leash loose just a bit. The conversation up to that point had been superficial and had followed some United Nations, Robert’s Rules of Order mode, given that some of us were getting to know one another. But, wanting to move away from such superficiality and fancy prep school formalities, I decided to pepper my thoughts with some observations about our brethren in the South, and in particular Georgia.

I am a great admirer of the city of Atlanta, also known as the New York City of the South, Georgians, and their history. Stone Mountain, Augusta, the woods and hills, Okefenokee and beautiful Savannah are but a few of the places of pride in Georgia. The people are warm and always greet you with a smile, whether on the Hertz bus, at the store, or walking down Peachtree Avenue. But, I also lit a fuse, not really on purpose, when I stated that the only problem with Georgia is that once you step outside of the greater Metro Atlanta area, it becomes white sheets and cross burning country.

I have met Georgians that had been preachers in Alaska, converting Eskimos to some kind of Christianity. Others told stories of tramping off into the woods for beer and crawfish parties and not coming back for days. One or two told me they are not racists but just don’t like blacks. Some detest Northerners and never want to meet another. And Bubba is a real name. A friend in Macon told me to never again serve Georgians bagels, fruit, milk and juice for breakfast. Gritting his teeth, he said, “These are Southern boys, grits for them.” I have sat on the porch of a general store in a rocking chair somewhere in the Georgian countryside while taking a break from motorcycle riding, sipping a lemonade, and watched a 50 something year old woman come screaming into the parking lot in a 1976 Ford pickup, stumble out of it in a ripped and dirty tank top, run in to the store and run back out with a 12 pack of Bud, lit cigarette in her mouth, climb back in to her truck and take off as if she were the female version of Bo and Luke Duke.

Unbeknownst to me, at Christmas dinner, one of the new faces, who happened to be a daughter of a good friend of my parents, had lived for many years in Columbus, Georgia. Like a good Southerner, or one that spent some time there and picked up at least one good trait, she was formal, kind, and maintained her composure while I presented my view of parts of Georgia. But, it was not until the next day that my little sister launched a verbal assault on me for having offended her.

We all have pride, yet more so when it comes to things near and dear to us, such as our homes. Americans are a traveling lot, not quite vagabonds, and one thing that some of us carry is a warm feeling and fond memories of whatever place we call home. With time and distance these bonds grow stronger yet more unclear as to truth.

If we feel we have learned something in these past fifteen years after college, it seems we really have learned nothing. After being pounded by popular belief that opinions are to be respected, or so that’s what I was told at UMASS, no matter how off base they are. But this daughter of my parents’ friend should not have been so upset as to require my sister to figuratively tie me to the post for 20 lashings.

Each person has unique experiences and viewpoints. Had things been reversed at Christmas dinner, this person might have made mention of how New Englanders are haughty, know it alls, cold, critical and liberal. But, see I would have agreed. After all we did lite the fuse that started the revolutionary war, have the best education in the country, best healthcare, are a center for high technology. We do suffer through miserable winters so we work hard and expect the best from each other.

Beautiful diatribe and pretty pictures painted with words cannot hide facts and should not be substituted, like Equal, for a real opinion or experience. We are adults, supposedly sure of our knowledge, feelings and well planted in our beliefs.

Maturing over these centuries has changed us from challenging duelers to debaters, from using swords to pens. But now we have gone too far, where we have become complete contradictions, painting beautiful and phony scenes where each one of us respects the opinion of the other, no matter how outlandish or false. At the same time we prohibit mention of opinions that don't fit the ideal of the moment, for fear of offending another, having to apologize or receiving a lecture from a sister.