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While
many serious scholars today discuss differences in cultures in
terms of postmodern, global or postcolonial issues, I came across
one of my first real culture shocks in a coin laundry in Kentucky.
The time-honored practice of washing clothes was the unexpected
setting for a new and profound appreciation of the differences
in what we consider to be the blurry, or even non-existent, line
between the North and the South in the United States.
Coming
from east central Illinois, I traveled the five-and-a-half hours
to Lexington, Kentucky, with a new job under my belt. I was fairly
confident that the change would not be enormous and that Lexington,
being a larger city than the one I come from, would offer me many
more conveniences and luxuries of a big city. I didn't particularly
listen to my friend Bob, who warned me, "Men open doors for women
in Kentucky." In fact, he drunkenly repeated it numerous annoying
times during the night of my farewell party, but I paid no heed.
Alas, it turned out to be true, more than I could ever have imagined.
So I knew I was in a different place but it didn't really sink in
until a particularly discordant experience washing clothes.
One
evening I was throwing my whites into the dryer, trying to hide
my undies, when two young men came in, looking about the age of
some of my students at the University of Kentucky. Initially I was
not too put off by his "Hello little lady," but it was a little
jarring to say the least. "OK," I thought to myself, "don't get
all high-minded and feminist. You are in a Laundromat, for chrissakes."
While pushing aside my feminist sensibilities, I managed a "Hi,
how are you doing?" and became involved in a polite conversation,
as is the way down here between complete strangers--something I
have already gotten used to and appreciate greatly.
The
obligatory question of what I do for a living came up. I answered,
as I usually do, that I am a teacher, hoping this would be the end
of that particular line of questioning, but it only seemed to spark
more interest as he tried to guess what grade I taught. I then offered
that I teach at the University. I felt a touch of satisfaction.
I admit that I enjoy setting people up by telling them I'm a teacher
and then explaining that I teach at a university. It's a girl thing.
I give myself permission since everyone assumes women teach grade
school and I love to see the changed expressions on their faces
when I hit them with "I am a professor at a university, thank you
very much."
Even
though I am thirty-eight, I have been blessed with young genes and
people almost always mistake me for a student if I say I'm with
the University. They certainly don't assume I am a university professor.
Sometimes I like it, but other times it becomes a bit tiresome.
After this revelation, he expressed a little surprise, probably
going through his own kind of culture shock, but he collected himself
and came back with what he probably understood as a compliment:
"Oh, you're a smart one, aren't you?" At this point I realized,
again, that I was in the South, and tried not to be offended, trying
to think of a witty, but scathing, rejoinder. Unfortunately, all
I came up with is, "I guess so."
The
strange thing about this conversation is that I just didn't expect
it. I am used to being hit upon by men, even young men who don't
realize how old I am. I'm used to having doors opened for me. But
never have I been treated in a way that sends up all my feminist
signal flags screaming that something ought to be said, something
ought to be done. There was just something about his smug, Southern
condescending attitude that really grated. The situation was crying
for an educational moment, but somehow I knew it wasn't quite appropriate,
or maybe I just didn't have the guts.
I really
know nothing about Kentucky, and for all I know, this was fairly
tame stuff. What surprises me, however, is how much of a difference
a few hours' drive can make. Nobody from Illinois would even have
spoken to me, much less initiated this kind of conversation with
a complete stranger. And it is this that makes me ambivalent about
coming down hard, especially when he started looking for quarters
in his own pocket when the dryer ate mine. All my feminist friends
would have been quite disappointed with my performance, but I found
myself flabbergasted and tongue-tied all at the same time, yet happy
that someone would actually speak to a stranger in a public place.
I don't
kid myself; I'm not that attractive. Moreover, would it really be
fair to impose my somewhat Northern sense of values of propriety
here? I don't really want to be viewed as a Northerner, or an outsider.
I want to fit in because, in some ways, I really love the Southern
way of life. I love the dog that appears to live in the parking
lot outside the education building where I teach. I love the silvery-tongued
Southern accent. I love the tall elm trees that line some of the
more affluent, horse-breeder homes. I love the way strangers will
chit-chat about this and that, even though you might be a serial
killer or a rabid feminist. I even love the way the older woman
at the lunch counter calls me "hon." What does one do in this situation?
Bob was right about one thing, "Men open doors for women in Kentucky."
I ain't in Kansas anymore.
Copyright
© 2000 Barbara Duncan. All Rights Reserved.
Barbara
Duncan is a writer and frequent contributor to *spark-online.
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