New Southern Living

Los Angeles County became my home a little over two years ago, and I’ve lived in West LA, Northridge, Marina del Rey and North Hollywood during that time. Born and raised in Deep South Georgia, I wasn’t sure how I was going to like living in a big city – and one over 2,000 miles away from home seemed even scarier, but I’ve now lived in Southern California on three occasions: I spent a year in Santa Barbara just after medical school and a year in Orange County (Santa Ana and then Garden Grove) just before my first deployment into “The Surge” of the Iraq War. Now I’m back. To my great surprise – and appreciation – I have enjoyed living here. My bias against big towns isn’t so much about growing up in a tiny farming town, population 5,000 (although that took some serious adjustment.) No, my bias comes from my first ever trip to a big city – New York City.

When I was in medical school down in Savannah, Georgia, I had to fly all over the country to interview for various residency programs. Based on my applications, I was fortunate enough to get interviews with various prestigious institutions. One of my interviews was with the Ivy League school, Columbia University in New York.

At the time, I was a typical 26 year old Southern girl – well, except I was also a lesbian with short hair and a couple of tattoos, which was not as typical… Nonetheless, I had led a relatively sheltered life when it came to “worldly” experiences, as my Grandmama might put it. I had never in my life been to New York City or anything like it, and the flight to New York would only be the third or fourth plane ride I had ever taken. Nonetheless, I had the confidence that I could compete, and the fact that they invited me for an interview reinforced my view.

One winter afternoon, my girlfriend (who had also never been to New York City) and I boarded a flight north. Bailey and I had a bit of a bumpy trip, riding in on choppy winds from a brewing blizzard. We were the last plane allowed to land at JFK International Airport that night.

By the time we got to where our hotel was located, it was full-on snowing. (I should mention that in addition to being first-timers in New York, Bailey and I were also novices when it came to snow having only “visited” snow on an occasion or two each. In South Georgia even when it tries to snow once in a blue moon, it doesn’t stick.) The cab driver managed to get to the correct address – or so we thought. We grabbed our bags, paid the cab driver and turned around to find… nothing.

As we shivered in the cold and looked at our paperwork, we were positive we had the right address, but we could – not – find – the – door. It looked like this blank grayish-white wall – no signs or anything. Eventually we did find a small door that blended in smoothly. It looked like the back exit of a restaurant, but we tried it anyway since that was our only option.

The door revealed a small entryway and an elevator… Bailey and I looked at each other, confused. Bailey pushed the button, and we entered the elevator unsure of what was about to happen.

It turned out, the elevator was actually glass, and as it rose up the floors, it opened directly into the lobby of the hotel – which was also the bar/ballroom/lounge of the hotel. On that night it was rented out by the Hip-Hop star Macy Gray for her big birthday bash. The whole place was packed with wealthy, well dressed yankees.

Enter a glass bubble with two girls that must’ve looked like they were straight outta Mayberry. My thought was, “Exit stage left. Immediately.” Bailey proved calmer, though, and we exited the elevator searching for hotel staff and a path out of the party.

I have no idea what I was wearing that night, but I can assure you that it was not New York hip or chic or stylish or whatever it should’ve been to even remotely fit in there. We stuck out like sore thumbs. Other than some confused stares, the people were polite and gave us room to make our way to the check-in desk in the corner. There we quickly signed in, got our room key and scurried away.

We walked down the hall both excited and horrified by what had just happened. Grateful to be safe and warm, we opened our door to find – the absolutely smallest hotel room ever constructed. We had bigger bathrooms at the Stop-N-Shop gas station back home than the one in that hotel room. The bed was up in the corner against two walls and there were about six inches of space between the bed and a third wall. Another six inches were allowed at the foot of the bed so that if you were actually gonna use the dresser, you might could crack a drawer or two open.

Bailey and I were shocked. We were also exhausted. I grabbed a Coca~Cola from the mini-fridge, grateful they’d thought to stock it, and plopped on the bed to rest. I had an early morning.

The next morning as I was getting up and getting dressed for my interview, Bailey was fiddling through the hotel information and the New York City attractions brochures. She chose that time to inform me that the Coca~Cola I drank the night before cost me eight dollars. I was in too big of a hurry to complain much but told her that I would pick up another one on my way back from the interview to replace it. “You can’t,” she informed me. “They have it wired. So, they already know you took it.” I stared at her for a minute: it sounded like big city nonsense to me.

On my way to Columbia I was faced with a mix of snow, sleet and harsh winds. Bitterly trudging down the sidewalk, I was NOT greeted by anyone. Nobody said, “Good mornin’!” Nobody even seemed to notice my existence – so much to the point that I was even shoved around a bit on the sidewalk, unaware that I needed to treat it like a football field and plow my way through the masses.

I did take time to look up. I looked up because that was just about all I could do. There were so many gigantic buildings all over the place, there wasn’t really any place to look outward. Even then, there wasn’t even very much visible sky – with all the buildings and helicopters and planes… I saw a lot of billboards with fancy advertisements. I did look left and right at some of the buildings I was passing and noticed playbills and menus and other advertisements. It looked like the Coca~Colas weren’t the only expensive item in New York City.

By the time I arrived at the hospital for my interview, I was cold and miserable and a little disheartened. We began with a tour for that day’s group of interviewees, and it was good. I had been on other tours, and it was quite comparable. Columbia has a wonderful reputation, and for medical and surgical training, they often work in conjunction with Cornell. A residency there would combine both institutions’ knowledge, skills, research and resources. That part was very attractive.

Then the tour guides – who were senior residents in the program – gave us the practical information. They lauded the great opportunities for fellowships and jobs after training there. New York City’s highlights of entertainment, dining and culture were reviewed. They also told us about the various places to live and about getting around the city primarily using the subway – to avoid all the traffic jams, of course.

New York City rent was going to be three to five times as much as my rent in Savannah – and a quarter of the size. The neighborhoods they described as charming sounded decrepit and dangerous to me… and the subway? “Don’t people get mugged and killed all the time on the subway?” I thought. I had spent eighty percent of my life in a town that didn’t have a bus system much less a subway and one that only had traffic “jams” when you had to wait your turn to pass a tractor on the highway.

By the time I got to my interview with The Chairman I was completely relaxed. I smiled. We joked a little bit. We casually chatted. All of this seemed to unnerve him. Eventually, he said, “You are the most relaxed interviewee I’ve ever seen. Why are you so calm and comfortable?”

“Oh,” I smiled. “That’s because I know there is no way in hell I am moving to New York City. I just didn’t want to be rude and stand you up for this interview.”

Now he smiled. We chatted a bit longer and then shook hands. I took the elevator to the street level and walked out of Columbia for good. Bailey and I slogged through snowy-slush for an overpriced Italian meal within walking distance of the hotel that night; we caught a show; and in the morning we happily said goodbye to New York.

So when moving to Southern California, that New York City experience was my only taste of a really big, diversified, international city. I was quite nervous about the move to Los Angeles. And, I was grateful to learn that those two cities are very different.

Down here in Southern California, I’ve found more space than In New York City (Central Park excluded, of course) and enjoy the hills all over the area – especially in Los Angeles and Ventura Counties, where you can see for miles whether from Griffith Park’s peak or Ojai’s Topatopa Mountains or Malibu’s cliffs. I enjoy having a variety of trails and parks and beaches for jogging or lounging. Being from a warm climate, I am ever grateful that it doesn’t snow here in Southern California – at least not that I’ve experienced. However, if I feel the need to be in the snow, I can drive up to Big Bear in less than two hours and have all the snow I want.

Los Angeles – and all of Southern California – is filled with new and exciting entertainment, has a wide array of dining experiences and is overflowing with diverse culture. I have been to high profile art openings, fresh film screenings, Michelin-starred restaurants, and to some of the best food trucks outside of Portland, Oregon. There’s a unique mixture of nature and industry, of nonprofits and corporations, of free-spirited thinkers and commercial giants. I feel safe riding the Metro, and I’m not afraid to stop somebody on the street for directions.

I am actually enjoying living in Southern California. I mean, it’s hard to one-up Southerners on their charm, but I’ve found the SoCal community welcoming and helpful. I have made life long friends here – family, even. I still occasionally get homesick, and when I need some of that comforting, savory, down-home cooking, I either do it myself or stop by one of the NoHo Food Truck Collective outfits – they know how to put a good scald on a chicken.

I appreciate the history and culture of New York. I know many people believe it is the best city in the world. For me, though, I’ll take LA any day. I am proud and grateful to be a part of the Southern California community and to call it my new Southern home for now.

Southern Belle

I am a Southerner. I love the South. I grew up in the great state of Georgia with its sweet peaches, vidalia onions and red clay. Ninety-eight percent of my extended family still live there, and I’m proud to call it home. Unfortunately, the views of the state legislature and many of its citizens haven’t always been kind to or even tolerant of the LGBTQ community, and it was worse in the nineties when I went to medical school – in Georgia.

Despite the conservative bent of the university and its town, I always felt comfortable. My girlfriend and I went out with my classmates and their significant others and fit right in seamlessly. She cheered me on from the sidelines whenever our intramural flag football team had a game and occasionally surprised me at school just to spend time with me on our lunch break. I felt accepted.

One day I was sitting in a psychiatry class diligently taking notes when I heard the professor say, “All homosexuals are deviants. They are all tattooed, pierced, flamboyant.”

He was standing right in front of me, and I was an easy mark: one of these girls did not look like the others.

As my classmates started to make objections, my head was swirling with what to say – at this point I had zero tattoos and a belly ring (but he couldn’t see that) and I sure as hell wasn’t running around with no shirt on screaming, “I’m a lesbian!” down the halls of the university. Before I could stand up to point these things out, my classmate – our class president – Meredith jumped up.

Meredith is the picture of a Southern Belle. She is a gorgeous born and bred Georgian, intelligent, hilarious – and straight as a board. We were all going to her heterosexual marriage that weekend, in fact.

Meredith jumped up and said, “Look. Look at my tattoos. Here and here. There’s one on my back, too. I have piercings. I have piercings in all sorts of places, and I’m straight! This girl – this girl right here…” She pointed to me. “This girl doesn’t have a tattoo on her body. There is nothing different between us. She is smart and funny and works just as hard as everybody else. She’s certainly not flamboyant. I’ve never even heard her say she was a lesbian. You know why? Because she’s just like everybody else! We’ve all met her girlfriend, and they’re a lovely couple. When we all go out for drinks with our significant others, they come with us – because they’re just like everybody else! What you are teaching is wrong – just wrong.”

He was stunned. I was stunned. I think the whole class was stunned.

I don’t remember what happened after that – if we continued the lecture or dismissed class. I just remember Meredith. I remember a tattooed and pierced-up Southern Belle giving it to the man!

Mama’s Backyard

Sitting at my Mama's kitchen table, I look out through her large kitchen window into the backyard. Hanging directly in the middle is her simple oblong, red hummingbird feeder. Radiating outward from there I see the air conditioner surrounded by shrubbery and the edge of the children's play area off to the left. Mama has those special pebbles you're supposed to use underneath swings and slides for children. The wood has long since stained and worn with sun and rain. The back yard stretches out towards the pecan grove with its own pecan trees within our fencing. There's a small shed in the back with a room for Mr. Glenn and then a covered area for the lawn mower and other yard equipment. The pecan grove beyond that is deep and bleeds into the neighbor's pecan grove even further. To the right I can barely make out the ponds, but the pond house is visible. It must be twenty years old by now - having been home to so many in transitory states. Finally, back in the center is Mama's flat stone patio with roses and other flowers framing its edges. The wiry furniture has colorful blue and pink cushions arranged neatly, and the side tables have plants of their own sitting atop them.

Looking out at the yard, I remember all of the different ways it used to look - with our old swing set beyond the den door; the chicken coop where the shed now stands; even the half finished playhouse left standing for years after Daddy died. It warms my heart thinking about all the basketball court sized gardens we used to have and how climbed just about every tree in that yard. A sense of peace comes over me remembering how that back yard was where I found my sanctuary growing up. Even better is what a wonderful place for adventure and imagination it still is for the next generation to enjoy, and reminiscing about that yard helps remind me to pay attention for all the everyday sources of solace and inspiration present in my life today.

Jingling the Horses

This is another story from my time just after graduating college when I spent several months on a 137,000 acre ranch. At this particular duty station, it was me and five boys in a barn taking care of 25-30 horses, some nearby cattle and a buffalo herd (actually, we didn't really do anything with the buffaloes except avoid them.)

Calling to Catch Up

I called my aunt just to say hello and catch up. We talked about the weather and then about my 102 year old great aunt not-so-shockingly being in the hospital again and then about my uncle preparing for the unfortunate colonoscopy he's having tomorrow - and if you have had one, you understand "preparing." These are all common topics when talking to my family back home in rural South Georgia. 

After the updates, she asked what I was doing. I told her I was in a 4 day, all day writing workshop, so not much detail to report. When I asked what else was new before hanging up the phone, and she casually said "well, you know, I called your Mama yesterday." (This was unusual bcs they generally don't talk just for nothing - these two need to actually have something practical to do, to organize or to answer or else they just visit in person. Yesterday was an answer problem.) 

"I just wanted to know where Scott's leg is buried." 

"Unh-huh," was all I could muster.

(Scott is my uncle - she said so without the "uncle" part bcs he's the youngest of 9 and as the oldest of 34 grandchildren "Uncle Scott" and I are only 3 or 4 years apart.)

I gathered myself. "What do you mean: where is his leg buried? They buried it? And, is he looking for it? I ..."

 She stopped me. "Yes, they buried his leg, and no, he's not looking for it. I am. When Daddy died, there were all these confusions about burial plots. Uncle AT's plot was four but because he died so early, they just moved him over there with Muddy Bess, and then when Uncle Randy died, they moved him out of his plots bcs nobody else had died and they didn't want to disturb that area." 

"Ok - but what does that have to do with Scott's leg?" I asked.

"Well, I only have so many spaces left for the family. Kate wanted to make sure there was space for her family." 

"She's 28." I protested. 

"I get that, AND, somebody's got to plan for where to fit everybody." 

"Well I"m being cremated." 

"Yes, I know, and so are Uncle Murray and I - but we still want a marker, and I want you to have one if you want it." 

"So, you want to know... wait, what's this got to do with Scott?" I asked again.

"I'd heard Rooster buried the leg, but nobody would confirm it much less tell me where it was... It turns out your Mama and Uncle Jim knew Rooster had it buried, but neither of them knows WHERE she buried it - only that it was in the allotted family acreage." 

"Ok, so what are you gonna do?"

"The preacher is going by to pick up the old retired care taker and bring him around - gonna see if he might remember where it is. We figure he's the most likely one to have done the actual burying." Aunt Deanie answered - almost exasperated - as if this were the only and perfectly logical solution.

"So she just stuck it in the ground - like planting a seed or something? No ceremony? No marker? Nothing?"

"I guess not. I just don't want to bury somebody on top of it - or worse have it appear in the dirt pile at a graveside service."

"Unh-huh."

"Ok. Well, I'm gonna finish up lunch for Uncle Murray. We love you!"

"I love y'all. Bye, Aunt Deanie."

It was just a regular, normal, routine call to catch up...