Dear D.C. metro area,
I know you get very sensitive about this whole "being part of the South" bit.
I know that, this far north, it's a little sticky to talk about North versus South, because there is still that weird, generations-old animosity and ante- and postbellum hatred.
While the south of the country has rich traditions, better taste in hats, politer manners and a greater knack for frying foods, there are other less-charming stereotypes that still hang on that hemisphere of the country, and I understand that proclaiming an affiliation to it makes you nervous.
Your palms sweaty, you get dizzy with the Dixie flags dancing in your head; the ugliness makes you afraid.
The unsophisticated, vowel-abusing drawls make you run for the hills– except that we're in a river basin and the nearest ones are nestled in the bosom of the lands whose latitudes you reject.
And yet, on a day like today where the skins of your people — be they borne from your loins or not, like yours truly– flush and bead with the sweat that can only come from that charming and overwhelming weather combination of heat and humidity that denies your latitudinal neutrality, there is little doubt as to where you stand in relation to the Mason-Dixon line.
In other words, it's Southern-muggy-warm today, and the lushness of the elms swaying in the breeze outside my window showcases it well. And there is not a thing you can do to convince people that this is not the South– at least weather-wise.
Your roots are showing, dear Washington, and they smell of Hush Puppies.
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