Spontaneity is like that old fling that drunk dials once in
a while to get sum’, and you know it’s probably not the best move to cross town
at 1 in the morning but you’re already self-loathing for finishing that pint
of B&J and you DID just buy that new sexy thang, tag still attached. So
you shave those legs and go for that high, telling yourself that life is short
and you’ll worry about the costs (financial, emotional, psychological) at a
later date. Live a little, amiright?!
So I booked a last minute trip to Georgia over the weekend.
Never a great idea because a middle seat on a redeye can actually cause mental
illness, but the idea of waking up to barbeque pulled pork and that sweet
southern twang was enough to keep me sane for the 3 hour time zone change.
The south is an animal I’ve had limited interaction with,
especially as an adult. My grandma lives in Arkansas and so I used to visit a
fair amount, dreading the two-hour hilly drive from Little Rock to Hot Springs that
always involved severe nausea. When we’d finally arrive, I’d get out of the
car, give fragile Grandma Ann a gentle hug and then run (give or take a stop to
the bathroom) to my favorite spot in the house… the downstairs ballroom. Grandpa
Dick, who passed way too soon, had built a large dance floor with a full
wall mirror and bar because more than anything my grandmother loved to dance. I
have vague memories of watching her waltz around in a bright red skirt that matched
her bright red hair. She’d twirl and the skirt would flair up, and I would
giggle each time I caught a glimpse of her underpants. I was like 6, okay. No one
had any idea that 15 years later I’d be the one ballroom dancing in college,
but I guess we never know what goes around and comes around until it does.
Just outside the dance room is a porch leading around the
house, and my grandparents would take my brother and I out there in the
mornings to put peanut butter in the birdfeeder. Then we’d eat our oatmeal and
wait for the hummingbirds. The house rests on the top of a hill with a view out
back that’s perfectly picturesque, an endless grove of trees rising and
falling, painting the landscape with the greenest of green. I’ve always been
impatient but the birds would eventually come, and if we stayed quiet enough we
could hear their little wings flapping a million miles a minute as their beaks
kissed the feeder. I enjoyed that, killing myself to stand completely still,
only to watch and listen. At night we’d go to the Shack, a local diner a few
miles away that to this day makes the best banana milkshake I’ve ever had. I
never noticed that my mother and brother and I were the only Asians in town and
that we didn’t discuss things like politics and religion because we would be in
contention with literally everyone around us. All I knew was that finishing the
entire shake meant an upset stomach, but that “deal with the costs later”
mentality is innate and so I’d do it every time.
Fast forward two decades and this time I’m in Georgia on a
two-hour ride from Atlanta to Columbus, equally gorgeous and green and hilly
and nauseating as the trip to Grandma Ann. Only now as an adult, post-socialist
Europe and identifying as anti-“people-who-think-having-more-guns-will-save-more-lives,”
I can’t help feeling irked by all the things around me that go against my
ideologies. Billboards for gun sales. Baptist churches with borderline racist
mantras. Trucks that murder the environment. Not that these observations kept
me from gorging myself on sweet tea, barbeque brisket, baked beans, and mac
& cheese all for less than a parking spot in LA. Followed by stacks of
French toast, grits, and deep-fried anything and everything the following
morning. Everyone I interacted with was extremely friendly and respectfully
listened as I pulled a Reese Witherspoon and asked questions in a fake
Southern drawl of my own. I guess two days really isn’t enough time to make any
fixed opinions about a place, though I could go on for hours about that chocolate chess pie.
Often times I was the only car on the highway, and so yeah,
I put the pedal to the metal and yeah, it felt pretty great. I started with the
windows rolled down and listened to classic rock and felt like a BAD ASS but it
got way too windy real quick so I toned it down. I even tried a little country
music, switching stations for every Baptist church I passed (which was more
than many) and felt alright, up until I passed an abandoned truck on the side
of the road and wondered, “well what the hell happened to that guy?” Then my thoughts turned to True Detective and In Cold Blood and bears in general and I suddenly
became hyper aware of my aloneness. Less like the liberation I felt starting out
and more like a security concern. Maybe driving and hiking by myself in a place
I have no idea about isn’t the greatest idea. But the girl in Wild did it, and I could definitely
sprint faster than her… right?
Long story short, I didn’t get kidnapped or murdered. I actually
had a super nice hike and met an older couple from Tennessee who I bet if I had
asked would not agree with my views on abortion. But they did tell me about the
one friend they had from Chicago who once sold tye-die skirts in Florida, who
may or may not still be living but seemed to do well for herself. I listened
and asked questions, not caring so much about the answers but appreciating
their attempt to find common ground. I mean, we were literally standing on the
same ground, this earthy red dirt smack dab in the middle of all this green,
and so that in itself connected me with these strangers who, given a different
context, I might have tried to avoid.
What state am I in again? |
You are just awesome as always.
ReplyDeleteLiving through you, girl. Great piece.
ReplyDeleteThanks for eating with us!
ReplyDeleteLove the blog.
Country's Barbecue
thanks! food was amazing!
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