1. I say everything wrong.
Apparently my major is not called “Anglish” and line is not pronounced “lawn.” I didn’t think I had an accent — I was raised by two native Ohioans — but ever since coming to Boston University, I’ve become increasingly aware that I have an accent that could be placed in between Appalachia and Athens, Georgia. Who knew?
2. Never eat Southern food above the Mason-Dixon line.
Nothing makes me laugh harder than whenever the dining hall claims to be serving “Carolina Pork BBQ” with a side of “mango salsa.” Or when Marciano Commons has “Southern food night” that involved some dangerously parboiled ribs with a fruit-based sauce spooned on top. And even when I do manage to find good Southern food here, it costs $23 for two pieces of fried chicken. Anyone knows that good Southern food should not cost more than $10.
3. You don’t know how nice warm weather is until you freeze to death.
I thought I was prepared for the weather. But then Boston dumped two-plus feet of snow on me without so much as a warning. I had no idea that wearing giant Stay Puft Marshmallow Man coats was not just a fashion choice, but also a necessity. I loved not being able to feel my face for a month, or walk outside for more than five minutes without catching hypothermia.
4. I only became a Southerner when I moved here.
When I lived in North Carolina, I did not consider myself a Southerner. In fact, I would regular protest when anyone called me a Southerner. I simply refused to be one. But after coming to BU, I realized that the label of “Southerner” is impossible to escape, especially because there are almost no other people from the South here. Whether I like it or not, I’m a delegate for the South.
5. Northerners don’t know anything about the South, so I can make up whatever I want.
And one more thing about being a weird unelected delegate for the South. Since no one here knows anything about the South here, I can tell anyone whatever I want about the South. Not saying I lie on purpose or anything, but I love the entertainment value involved with trying to convince my roommate that I was really taught the American Civil War was called the War of Northern Aggression.