The South is renown for its hospitality; but when my sister’s friend recently visited from the state of Washington, I was struck by how different our culture really is.
Any further discussion requires a clear definition of the “South.” The Mason-Dixon line supposedly marks the boundary between the Yankee “North” and genteel “South,” but the true cultural line of demarcation occurs far below the legendary division. After all, Maryland and Virginia are both within the Southern half of the Mason-Dixon line, yet they both get snow; and as every good Southerner knows, any state that’s completely covered in snow each winter is not really part of the South. The real South—the Deep South—is not marked by imaginary geographic lines. Instead, its regions are bordered with fried chicken, yams, and pralines. Nutritional guidelines are shattered into a million tiny fragments, but everyone is too busy licking their fingers to care.
Even though each Southern state boasts its own culture, most behaviors are shared among Dixieland neighbors. Consider the distinctive way we address people. In the North, everybody is simply a homo sapiens who is called a name. You talk to John or Vicki. Southerners, on the other hand, are born with understood prefixes—Mr. John and Mrs. Vicki. Woe to the poor Southern child who fails to properly address his elders: his face has been slapped so many times he can’t even whistle “Dixie”! But these simple acts of courtesy go beyond mere politeness; the combination of title and name immediately announces your relationship to another person. For example, if someone is Mr. Claude Boudreaux, he is probably an authority figure who requires a certain level of respect. Mr. Claude denotes a closer level of familiarity—perhaps he is your friend’s dad. Claude is your best buddy who taught you how to suck crawfish heads.
Despite the South’s general reputation of friendliness, I consider Louisiana’s version of hospitality the most legitimate. Others seem to practice Southern Hospitality as a requirement: “Well, I’m a Southerner, so I guess I’ll be nice.” No accent, regardless of how thick and sweet it may be, can hide a bad attitude; anybody who has experienced an arrogant woman using her Southern Belle accent to cover the fact she thinks you’re a moron would agree with me that it is a weak deception. Cajuns, on the other hand, do not bother trying to hide their emotions: you know what they’re thinking because their voices, faces, hands, and eyes make it obvious. But the same personality that sends Louisiana children shrieking in terror from an angry momma provides the warmest, friendliest welcome guests can imagine—because the emotions are genuine.
I have observed groups of Louisiana natives in other states, and I’ve seen at least two hundred strangers shout the LSU chant while waiting in line at EPCOT Center. I’m from Texas, but I have never sung “Home on the Range” just because I met another Texan. Maybe the Louisiana bond comes from shared experiences. For instance, the city of New Orleans spends its Fat Tuesdays imbibing as much as possible, and its Ash Wednesdays doubled over toilets. Such a vast collective experience must surely unite groups of strangers in ways impossible for Northerners.
When my sister’s friend visited about a month ago, he was struck by everyone’s friendliness, but he was also practically knocked over with food. You see, the true litmus test for Southern hospitality is the amount of food dumped on a visitor. The food one gets is more or less proportional to people’s opinion of him: we’ll either welcome him with gumbo or send him back home with a stick of celery. Considering that the guy was acknowledged with several meals, two king cakes, cookies, and pralines (Trosclair family pralines, the best on earth), I can safely presume he experienced authentic Southern hospitality. Whether or not he has the Southern gut needed to process our rich foods is another matter entirely.
by Timothy Samaha
First Published in PoV Magazine
