Southern Discomfort

“Ah you drinkin’ a cawsmo-politan, Shh-awn?” drawled my eldest cousin, Britney.

Considering that I was the very unlegal age of 17 when she asked me this question, my ears and cheeks immediately turned red as I struggled for an appropriate response to what I thought was a question about underage drinking. Staring blankly, I attempted to evaluate the situation, and then I remembered our setting: We were in my uncle’s living room in Prairieville, La. Given that Louisiana is a state where many start drinking at puberty—in fact, my first daiquiri was in a (legal) to-go cup in the French Quarter at age 14—I realized that my cousin could not be possibly questioning my underage alcohol consumption. While quickly trying to regain my outward confidence, I responded with a shrill, “Yes.”

“Oh Shh-awn,” Britney replied, “Das a gay drink.”

I then saw my opportunity to finally come out to my 23-year-old cousin. Having already explained my sexual orientation to my other six cousins, she was the last one I had to tell. I thus replied, “Well, then, it fits the bill.”

“What you mean, Shh-awn?” she gasped.

“Well, Britney, I’m gay,” I shyly said.

“Oh no, Shh-awn. Doh-nn be gay,” she advised.

This was not exactly the response I was expecting. Of all of the cousins who I could imagine giving me such “advice,” Britney was—without a doubt—the last one qualified to do so. At the time of this conversation, she had never been married, yet she already had two children by way of two different men. I fantasized about what it would have been like had I screamed back at her, “Well Britney, why don’t you stop getting knocked up by every lowlife in the state of Louisiana?”

Unfortunately, I chose not to respond to her in such a way. Instead, I turned around, walked upstairs, and sat on my cousin Luke’s bed overwhelmed by frustration. I could not find a way to rationalize the preceding event. Telling myself that Britney was uneducated and provincial just could not make me feel any better about what had just happened, for she was just another member of the family who held a clear distaste for my sexual orientation.

As time went on, however, I learned to laugh at this story, and I frequently call on this anecdote when friends ask about my family life. People are generally surprised by the story, and they often express these sorts of questions:

“Wait, your family is from the South?”

“Aren’t you Jewish?”

“Why don’t you have an accent?”

SparkNotes version: I was raised Jewish. That comes from my dad’s side of the family, who is originally from Philadelphia. While my appearance and speech generally align more with that gene pool, I almost never see that side of the family. Instead, I visit with my mom’s side at least twice a year. And they are Christian, blonde, and long-time Southern folks. This intrafamily culture clash comes together to create some very memorable dinner table conversations. I’ll never forget the time when one of my aunts asked me to say grace “in Jewish,” or when that same aunt cooked only a ham for dinner. Ah, the memories.

So far this article has only reinforced the Yankee stereotype of the Southern person: a beer-bellied redneck donning a Confederate flag cape and a beer hat, belligerently insisting “The South will rise again!” This is the “Southern pride” we see depicted in movies, on television, and in countless works of literature. It is a stereotype, and one that is fun to invoke. I could perpetuate this generalization by ending with an anecdote about the time that I saw three LSU alums chainsaw the head off of a stray alligator while tailgating at a LSU-Flordia football game. Or, I could simply attempt to redress the skewed nature of my family portrait.

While the negative experiences with my mom’s family stand out, their constant presence in my life has added a unique twist to my Jew-from-South-Florida personality. For the most part, my family is able to have really open discussions about our differences, and this allows us the opportunity to correct previous misconceptions and truly learn about that which would otherwise be foreign. For example, my Columbia experience helped inspire my youngest cousin to go to college in New York. I take pride in my middle name (Manning, my mother’s maiden name) and everything that comes with it, and my tenure as a student at Columbia has only helped embolden my own sense of Southern pride. In a school where I can use my hands to count the number of Southern students that I know, my family allows me to bring something else to the diversity buffet. I will never forget the looks of excitement that filled my first-year roommate’s face when I would describe crawfish boils, turduckens, fried alligator, Zatarain’s, Café Du Monde beneights, king cakes, and other foodstuffs of New Orleans and Cajun culture. My experiences with LSU tailgates, bayou kayaking adventures, swampland slogging expeditions, and shrimp-boat fishing are all great ways to engage a John Jay table.

I am as critical of my Manning side as I am celebratory of it. Considering the uniformly liberal politics and viewpoints of my friends and professors here at Columbia, my family offers a modest sense of balance and confrontation to many ideas that I have come to hold as “true.” The stark differences between my Columbia friends and Louisiana family allows me a greater opportunity to critically evaluate and solidly affirm my beliefs, and for that I will always be thankful for the Mannings’ constant presence.

The author is a sophomore in Columbia College. He is an elected representative for the Class of 2011.