The Carpet Bagger's Journal — moving from NYC to Mississippi

May 16, 2015

Extending Extra Hospitality to Close Friends: Why Only Tramps Like Blanche DuBois Regularly Depend on the Kindness of Strangers

Southerners pride themselves on hospitality, you’ve heard.  Sometimes, they practice a kind of teeth-gritted smiling hospitality that thinly masks grudges with graciousness, but honestly, once they get to know a person enough to feel a bit relaxed, Southerners are generally good hosts without guile.  If a person, even a carpetbagger, happens to be not just among them but of them, one of their people, after the other guests have left, the hostess lets that inner circle member see her take off her patent pumps and chandelier earrings, whips out the good bourbon, and they have the real conversation she has been dying to have all evening.

I have decided to learn from my time here in Mississippi the art of such hospitality.  To all of you who are in the outer courts of my love but not on my wishing-you’d-kick-the-bucket-list, and that perhaps means first-time readers of this blog – I hope you and I are already chummy, if not bffs just yet — I bid you a good evening here and offer you a glass of punch, a tea cookie off of the tray where I have artfully arranged desserts in a crescent shape.  But if you are truly my people, then I’m slipping out of these crinolines that itch and mixing us some juleps.  Then I will unlock the vault of my secrets, the totality of my deepest regrets and aspirations.

My friend Cynthia in the South of France before she moved to the South of the USA.  She will document her culture shock here in periodic posts.

My friend Cynthia in the South of France before she moved to the South of the USA. She will document her culture shock here in periodic posts.

So it is with my good friend, truly one of my people, Miz Cynthia Redecker, a gifted writer whom I have known longer than either of us cares to admit.  When Cynthia met me, I had spiky red hair and a white leather bomber jacket, as I was not so much an artist back then as an, “artist, dammit!”  I was bold, but I had plenty of rough edges.  Cynthia, on the other hand, looked like young Grace Kelly, a vision of sophistication, and yet she was not at all pretentious.  She seemed queenly, except that her hair was always a little beachily untamable, and she seemed entirely unaware of her own naturally regal air.  I secretly aspired to be like Cynthia, in that she spoke four languages fluently, read everything, traveled the world, and had the air whenever she arrived somewhere to be always entering with a wind-blown chic as if she had just disembarked from a yacht in the Mediterranean after a pleasure cruise, even if she had only just taken the subway.  Cynthia never saw herself the way I saw her, which was part of her charm.  She told me she saw me as swash-buckling, admittedly proactive and direct in ways that are uncommon in the diplomatic circles in which she traveled, and compared to Cynthia, I at least appeared fearless, even though I was secretly more terrified than she ever was.

Today Cynthia, like me, has abandoned places more sophisticated than Mississippi and has found herself in the South.  She, like I am, is a bit of a fish out of water down here.  I tell you she is my people, a sister carpetbagger, mon semblable, mon frère.

Again, she is of my people, the way they ask in cotillions in a hushed murmur, “but who are her people?” about any newcomer who wishes to debut at their club.  And in that spirit, I offer to the newly arrived sister carpetbagger, who actually has just disembarked in Florida after actually spending time on the French Riviera as a journalist, a place in this blog’s cotillion to impart her canny observations as an outsider looking in.  I hope she will blog like a pleasure cruiser, a woman who finds herself in new tropics, will use her trained journalistic eye to let us know the lay of the land in a manner that takes nothing for granted.

In this spirit, since she is one of mine, I ask my readers to invite her to tea with us in the pavilion as she blogs periodically here.

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2 Comments »

  1. You absolutely nailed it with the “Who are her people?” Being from the rural Mississippi Delta, I begin almost every explanation of who someone is in terms of whom their “people” are, which really just means who they are related to. It’s a truly Southern thing, and not something intended to be negative (on most occasions). It’s just our way of saying, “where are you from, and do I know any of your “people?” Southerners LOVE coincidence…that surprise feeling you get when you find out their “people” are related to your “people” somehow, or how you played basketball against a girl who was one of her “people.” It’s really common. I think you know us better than we know ourselves, Anne.

    Comment by Suanne Strider — June 6, 2015 @ 1:39 pm | Reply

    • I just listen to what people say down here and draw certain conclusions, doll! Thanks for your comments!

      Comment by annebabson — June 6, 2015 @ 3:47 pm | Reply


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