WELL BLESS HER HEART!
Someone once noted that a Southerner can get away with the most awful kind of insult just as long as it's prefaced with the words "Bless her heart" or "Bless his heart."
As in, "Bless his heart, if they put his brain on the head of a pin, it'd roll around like a BB on a six-lane highway."
Or, "Bless her heart, she's so bucktoothed, she could eat an apple through a picket fence."
There are also the sneakier ones that I remember from tongue-clucking types of my childhood: "You know, it's amazing that even though she had that baby seven months after they got married, bless her heart, it weighed 10 pounds!"
My personal favorite was uttered by my aunt who said, "Bless her heart, she can't help being ugly, but she could've stayed home.
As long as the heart is sufficiently blessed, the insult can't be all that bad, at least that's what my Great-aunt Tiny (bless her heart, she was anything but) used to say.
I was thinking about this the other day when a friend was telling me about her new Northern friend who was
upset because her toddler is just beginning to talk and he has a Southern accent.
My friend, who is very kind and, bless her heart, cannot do a thing about those thighs of hers, so don't even start, was justifiably miffed about this.
After all, this woman had CHOSEN to move South a couple of years ago.
"Can you believe it?" she said to my friend. "A child of mine is going to be taaaallllkkin' a-liiiike thiiiissss."
I can think of far worse fates than speaking Southern for this adorable little boy, who, bless his heart, must surely be the East Coast king of mucus. I wish I'd been there. I would have said that she shouldn't fret, because there is nothing so sweet or pleasing on the ear as a soft Southern drawl.
Of course, maybe we shouldn't be surprised at our "carryings on."
After all, when you come from a part of the world where "family silver" refers to the large medallion around Uncle Vinnie's neck, you just have to, as Aunt Tiny would say, "consider the source." Now don't
get me wrong. Some of my dearest friends are from the North, bless their hearts.
I welcome their perspective, their friendships, and their recipes for authentic Northern Italian food. I've even gotten past their endless complaints that you can't find good bread down here.
The ones who really gore my ox are the native Southerners who have begun to act almost embarrassed about their speech. It's as if they
want to bury it in the "Hee Haw" cornfield. We've already lost too much.
I was raised to "swanee," not to swear, but you hardly ever hear anyone say that anymore. I swanee you don't. And I've caught myself thinking twice before saying something is "right much," "right close"
or "right good" because non-natives think this is right funny indeed.
I have a friend from Bawston who thinks it's hilarious when I say I've got to "carry" my daughter to the doctor or "cut off" the light. And don't get me started on "I'm fixin' to..."
That's OK. It's when you have to explain things to people who were born here that I get mad as a mule eating bumblebees.
Not long ago, I found myself trying to explain to a native Southerner what I meant by being "in the short rows." I'm used to explaining that expression (it
means you've worked a right smart but you're almost done) to newcomers to the land of buttermilk and cold collard sandwiches (better than you think), but to have to explain it to a Southerner was just plain weird. The most grating example is found in restaurants and stores where nice, Magnolia-mouthed clerks now say "you guys" instead of "y'all," as their mamas raised them up to say. I
I'd sooner wear white shoes in February, drink unsweetened tea, and eat Miracle Whip instead of Duke's than utter the words, "you guys."
Not long ago I went to lunch with four women friends and the waiter, a nice Southern boy, "you-guys"-ed all of us within an inch of our lives. "You guys ready to
order? What can I get for you guys? Would you guys like to keep you guys' forks?"
Lord, have mercy. It's a little comforting that, at the very same time some natives are so eager to blend in, they've taken to making microwave grits (an abomination), the rest of the world is catching on
that it's cool to be Clampett. How else do you explain NASCAR tracks and Krispy Kreme doughnut franchises springing up like yard onions all over the country?
To those of you who're still a little embarrassed by your
Southernness, take two tent revivals and a dose of red-eye gravy and call me in the morning.
Bless your heart!
--author unknown
