Someone’s mother commented a few weeks back about how I am like part of the family, because I’m a redneck, too.
She said this as a compliment, and I took it as one. Because, while I am not a “Redneck Woman,” I certainly live in that part of the country where one is more likely to hear that song on the radio than, say, Soundgarden. It’s not who I am, but it’s part of my existence. I understand it culturally and frankly, I am nothing if not chameleonic. My redneck mama gets this about me.
I can sing that Gretchen Wilson song, thanks, followed by a serpentine, choreographed Shirley Bassey number. Hey, hand me that cello and I might play Shostakovich for you. I will discuss public health policy on a date and diss Jeff Gordon with my brother. I don’t tolerate narrow mindedness and the fact that Miles describes his new friend as having “dark brown skin and her hair in braids with lots of beads” makes my heart melt.
I’m on the PTA and I like getting it up the ass.
I had my abortion and my children by choice.
I don’t spend time with mean people. Excellent choice, that.
Perception’s a funny thing. I’m glad when it works in my favor, like with my redneck mama.
When I told a friend about that comment, she cackled:
“Dude, how can she think you’re a redneck; you have multi-hued hair and a nosering.”