Stereotypically Speaking ...

One August night in 1979 my father came home from work and he was visibly upset. My mom thought the worst – someone had died. She assumed it was a family member or one of my father’s fellow firefighters. She was off by a bit. New York Yankee, Thurman Munson had died in a plane crash and my father was devastated.

Dad is a huge Yankees fan. I can remember going to see the Yankees play twenty years ago. It was always an exciting trip, trekking into New York City, navigating the South Bronx (with a different game plan each time), eating Yankee franks, the works.

My sister and I broke my dad’s heart I’m sure when we married a Red Sox fan (Joe) and a Mets fan respectively. However, I am sure he had no idea that when we announced we were moving to the South, that he would become the father of two bona fide “Yankees.”

Believe it or not, in the North we don’t refer to ourselves as Yankees. However, in the fourteen months that I have lived here I have been called a Yankee more times than I care to recall – sometimes in a joking manner and too many times it has been said with contempt.

So, will I always be a Yankee? Will time ever expunge that offense from my record?

I just don’t understand the whole North vs. South thing. Now I’m no history buff, but as far as I can tell the Civil War ended 141 years ago. So, why the continuing battle?

Jeff Foxworthy, Saturday Night Live, and Hollywood in general have pigeon-holed us people. We need an uprising against the media. Down with stereotypes. We aren’t really like they portray us, are we?

Do you drive fast and without regard for others?
Do you talk fast?
Are you rude and obnoxious?
Are you in the mob or know someone who is?

If you’ve answered yes, well then, you must be a Yankee.

Do you talk slow?
Do you work at a snail’s pace?
Do you watch Nascar?
Do you know Larry the Cable Guy?

If you’ve answered yes, well then, you must be a Southerner.

Let’s move on people. We live in the geographically diverse melting pot of Bluffton, South Carolina.

If we’re going to make fun of someone, let’s make fun of the folks on the West Coast. After all, those tree-hugging, surfer dudes and gals (probably made of plastic), who either work in Hollywood or in a coffee shop in Seattle, hang out with Paris and Nicole, party all night, and are like, soooo lame.