Living in the South

I love fried chicken. I drink sweet tea. I even watch the Daytona 500 every single year. But I can't help noticing little things every day about the region I live in without it bugging the shit out of me.

I was born in North Carolina, raised in southwestern Virginia, and I grew up in a very small town named Hillsville. Yes, the name of the town was Hillsville. How creative. The founders discovered some land in the Blue Ridge mountains and named it Hillsville. Hillsville is home of the county's only high school, the one I attended. And the county, Carroll County, is solidly Republican and every car and truck has bumper stickers and magnets displaying their love of the Confederate flag and the Virginia Tech Hokies. Blacksburg is only about 30 minutes away.

Everyone is boring. With the exception of my generation, the population of Carroll County is vastly dull and uninteresting. Everywhere I've ever worked I've ended up debating politics, seeing as how I'm the resident Kool-Aid drinking liberal because I don't hate gay people and I'm against the war. In high school, Carhartt jackets and Wrangler jeans are the equivalent of Abercrombie and Fitch and American Eagle Outfitters. If you didn't know how to milk a cow or belong to the FFA, you were unique. Having cow shit on a pair of work boots was a badge of honor in those hallways. In shop class you could find chewing tobacco that had been spit out in the floor, and everyone in there kept a 20 oz. bottle to spit their Skoal into. I've never been to a rodeo and I would wipe my ass with the Confederate flag if given the opportunity. My best friend was one of only two black guys in my graduating class and I hate tractors. I have never stuck my arm up a cow's ass, but I bet the majority of my graduating class has.