Deconstructing Southern Nostalgia

Amanda Opelt

Growing Up in the South

I was born in Birmingham, Alabama.  I lived there until I was 9 when we moved to rural East Tennessee, just north of Chattanooga.  I grew up rooting for the Crimson Tide, drinking sweet tea, baking biscuits, and catching fireflies in mason jars.  You could say I am a Southern girl, through and through.

There are a specific set of conditions any good “Southern Belle” must agree to if she is to conform to white Southern society’s expectations of femininity, class, and respectability: she must maintain an abiding loyalty to the land beneath the Mason Dixon Line.  She must love SEC football and know the difference between good defense and pass interference.  She must be able to render thick, mouthwatering gravy from pork fat.  And above all, she must preserve a sentimental, nostalgic longing for the good old days of the Antebellum South – back when chivalry still reigned, ladies were genteel in their dramatic hoop skirts, and culture was unruffled by carpetbaggers, scallywags, and uppity Northern aggressors.

I never used to see a problem with this.  I thought it was simply quaint that my cousin flew a rebel flag in his front yard and wore a Confederate hat around town.  I thought it was just folksy that my Grandmother’s childhood home featured Vaudeville style artwork and whatnots with characters in blackface.  I thought it was normal for people to spend their weekends participating in Civil War reenactments, the battlefield outcomes always altered to manufacture victory for the Confederacy for the sake of the cheering crowds.  

After all, our Alabama history textbooks taught that yes, slavery was bad, but that many masters were benevolent, and the Civil War was fought primarily over States Rights.  We were taught that Union forces were merciless in their plunder of the land, leaving a legacy of poverty behind them.  Moreover, we were taught that Civil Rights and racial justice were thoroughly accomplished by the likes of Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, and John Lewis way back in the 1960s.  

There are many reasons why we cling so unflinchingly to our white washed narrative of Southern history.  There’s a subtle, but popular notion among white Southerners that all “yankees” think they are better than we are – more intellectual, more sophisticated, more enlightened.  We’ve cultivated a narrative of marginalization for ourselves, and so the natural reaction is to glorify the past, idolize our folk heroes (such as Jefferson Davis or Robert E. Lee), and minimize our contributions to our failures in order to reclaim a sense of collective identity and snuff out any sense of shame.  We’ve come to enjoy seeing ourselves as the proud but persistent underdog, an ideology that politicians and country music sensations alike have tapped into to secure an audience and win loyalty.  

“Rather, I should look impartially at its history and should feel the weight of the reality of my privilege; I should constantly be asking God to deepen my empathy and use my position for the change He wants to see in the world.”

It all went together, this hodgepodge of Southern sentimentality and identity.  For me, frying chicken, mumbling about Yankees, screaming “Roll Tide!” speaking with an ooey, gooey drawl, and loving Gone with the Wind were all part of what it meant to be a Southerner, to be a woman, to be charming, and to belong.

But then, in the last few years, I began to listen.

I began to read.

I began to ask questions.

Also, I married a Yankee.  

Confronting Hidden Biases

Mostly I credit the bravery of Black friends and writers and social activists who opened my eyes to the systemic injustices that still exist in our culture today.  I never fancied myself a racist, but I began to realize that I was participating in the perpetuation of oppression by tolerating false narratives.  My complacency, and the collective complacency of so many of my social peers, allowed truly nefarious acts of discrimination to thrive, unnoticed or unchallenged by the people who had the power to change them.  My apathy and my commitment to my quaint, cutesy identity as a Southern Belle was harmful in ways I am only beginning to understand.  Assuming that there is no current problem, and that the problems were negligible to begin with, allows you to wave off the cries for justice coming from People of Color.  Nostalgia is a sly mechanism for maintaining the status quo. 

The Bible tells us to “mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15) and warns against saying “peace, peace when there is no peace” (Jeremiah 6:14).  What may seem quaint and folksy to me represents plunder, abuse, and exploitation to others.  The heart of God desires justice, and He calls me to participate in it.  This holy participation requires that I pay attention to the perspectives of others.  This is the only appropriate response to the Gospel.

My refusal to notice the pain of People of Color is something I need to repent of and guard against.  When we see the true past, the pain, and persistent problems, then together we can appropriately reshape the present and future to be just and unbiased for all, not simply for those who control the narrative.  Telling the truth about our history may expose the failures of ourselves and our ancestors.  But it will also serve as a gateway to confronting and mending systems that are still broken and in need of repair, whether that be criminal justice, housing, healthcare, and education.  It also allows me to root out the hidden biases that still exist in my own heart.  This is an arduous task.  The problems are complex and require listening, study, and attention, but it is well worth it.      

Some may ask if I’m saying that I am ashamed to be a white southerner.  Some may ask if I’m suggesting that we bury our history or hate our heritage.  I do believe that shame can do a holy inner work in us.  But here’s the takeaway from what I have come to believe:  To be honest, humble, and reflective is to find the path forward from hidden and fruitless shame to bold and fruitful remorse and repentance. To tell the truth about something is the most effective way to love and serve it. To protest a true injustice is one of the greatest acts of patriotism we can engage in.

I’ll always believe there are many things to love about the South:  the culture, the landscape, the food, the hospitality.  There is nothing more magical to me than the resounding chorus of spring peepers in April and summer cicadas in July.  I still love a cold glass of sweet tea and will always cheer for the Crimson Tide.  It’s not that I should feel shame at being a Southerner.  Rather, I should look impartially at its history and should feel the weight of the reality of my privilege; I should constantly be asking God to deepen my empathy and use my position for the change He wants to see in the world.  It is precisely because I love the South that I should commit myself to its renewal. 

Amanda Opelt is a regular writer for The Journey. Some of her other stories include: “When the Unthinkable Happens,” “Present and Accounted For,” “Living Locally,” and “The Secret of Contentment.” You can also visit her website for more!