A Death in the Deep South
My husband and I are transplants here and I still don’t know if we are Yankees
We’ve lived in the South for almost four years. It’s not that people are unfriendly. They ignore or don’t notice us and get on with their business, as we do ours. There are no Black people in our community. Black people deliver our Amazon stuff and mail. People who come to fix things, try to sell us insurance or whatever, so far, have been white, and I do not know if ‘white’ should be written as ‘White’ but that seems weird, so I’m leaving it uncapped.
We get nods from our neighbors but few to no invites, which is fine. Being the new kids on the block (did I mention liberal democrats from California?), we took the initiative and invited two neighborhood couples for dinner.
My husband is a superb cook. The dinner he made was excellent–from what little I remember. Despite my online bravado and being in a somewhat unpleasant profession, I am shy around people I don’t know. I drank too much and then out on the sofa. Thankfully, I didn’t vomit.
Likely, our new neighbors were appalled, though my husband assured me they understood, chuckled, and said things like: ‘Hey, happens to everyone.’ No one has yet to invite us back, though, and it’s been three years.
