Thought Catalog

Shutterstock / PhotoSkechShutterstock / PhotoSkech

For most of us, even those born and raised here and rooted to the soil like one of Faulkner’s oaks, the South no longer exists. In fact, nearer to the truth, it has never existed. The South, as we know it, is a collective fantasy that lives in us as much as we in it. The moonlight and magnolias of the antebellum South were more an invention of Margaret Mitchell than a proper recollection. Very few variations of the Southern accent are as lyrical and charming as the arts have made them seem; a real native of New Orleans sounds more like a Yankee than they do any iteration of Blanche Dubois. The little things that make Southerners seem like a people unto themselves are no more insular and confounding to the outsider than the comparable quirks of any distinct populace. For every West Virginia ramp supper…

View original post 1,692 more words