Sweet Tea

I like living in the South. Although I wasn’t born here, I have spent most of my life in the South, and it suits me just fine. In spite of the affects of globalization and the presence of look-alike shopping malls, things are different here in a lot of ways. Take iced tea for example. Sweet tea is a staple of southern living; we take it seriously. During a college commencement address I attended, the displaced valedictorian made the mistake of saying that after four years at this fine southern institution, she still didn’t “get” sweet tea. The room fell quiet with the same shocked hush as if she had publicly insulted her momma. We don’t do that here either.

So I have grown comfortable with some of the quirks unique to Southerners. Our trademark drawls and generous hospitality set us apart. We use language differently here. In other parts of the country the word “nice” is a simple adjective. In the South we understand that it is a call to arms and we have been taught to be nice at all times. Nice people offer to baby-sit and carpool. They prepare casseroles for church gatherings on a moment’s notice. We gather with them at committee meetings that occur with amazing frequency at inconvenient times in order to accomplish ambitious goals set by fervent idealists. Nice people are defined by action and sacrifice, perhaps reflecting Confederate roots. We raise being nice to an art form.

So when someone asked me recently if I would be nice enough to help out with a particularly unpleasant task, I neither doubted the amount of free time I would forfeit nor how much my reputation as a nice girl would suffer if I said no.

Fortunately I had a large pitcher of sweet tea standing by to soften the blow.