The South is my home. For all its faults, and there are many, I love the South like it is my grandmother and grandfather. The land kept my family afloat during the Depression and many other bad times. The faith supported my family when we had very little to believe in. The people fed and clothed us, as we fed and clothed them.
I lived in Georgia for most of my life, but have moved so that I could be with my Husband, my love. He seems happy with our current location, but I keep thinking about the continuation of our little pack, and I worry that any children I might bear won’t understand my love for the fucked up place of my origin, and it breaks little bits of my heart off every time I think about it.
I don’t worry that I won’t be able to share myself with my children. I’m fairly certain that any child of mine and my husband’s is going to be exposed to enough of our quirks to share our love of geekiness, music, and crafts. Our child will read far beyond her age level. He will be stout and know more about Star Wars/Star Trek/Lord of the Rings/Zombies/etc. than any child really should know. She might rock the goth look, or he might be a polo-shirt boy.
But my relationship with my home is so much a part of who I am, and it really is tired to the physical location. If we aren’t there, what does that mean? Husband doesn’t like grits, and I don’t think he ever really felt tied to Georgia the same way that I do, so it won’t be the both of us trying to pass that along.
Other people worry about their heritage, and this is a part of mine. I just want to share the lovely bits of my history with my children. Magnolia trees, azalea bushes, peaches and peanuts.