Southern Comfort – Is It Time for a Change?
New Yorkers have always been known for their resilience in the face of disaster, their courage at times of crisis, but seldom have they been praised for their good manners.
As a fifth generation New Yorker I had grown accustomed to New York manners (or the lack of them) until I worked for a period in the small towns of the South. What a lovely surprise.
This was many years ago, back in the 1930s, but I suspect that the ingrown graciousness and helpfulness of the typical shopkeepers or restaurant owners has little changed. I should not have been astonished by their tact and politeness as I had seen Southern manners operating in my school days. Out of a class of thirty girls in my private school in New York, one of them was different from all of us. She was from Missouri. Her full name was Mary Jordan Smith. Her mother, a widow, always called her “Mary Jordan.” For some mysterious reason the “Jordan” was pronounced “Jeurdon.” To us she was simply “Jeurdie,” a moonfaced girl with a gentle manner and an exasperatingly slow drawl. It took Jeurdie an incredible time to react. Her smile was lovely and sincere, but it seemed to take centuries to spread across her face. Merriment in slow motion. While the rest of us were elbowing and shoving to get into the elevator or school bus, Jeurdie was politely waiting her turn.
Our teachers were well aware of Jeurdie’s superior mind, but it took extreme patience to listen to her as she answered their questions. In later years I was quite surprised to hear that Jeurdie had never married. It would have been awfully hard for one with her kindness and natural courtesy to turn down an ardent suitor. She became an art curator in one of New York’s major museums.
She had been my only experience with Southern manners until I took a job directing amateur plays in rural towns in Georgia, and North and South Carolina. I was twenty years old, a committed New Yorker who had never traveled further south than Staten Island. My acting and directing experience was as minimal as my knowledge of the South but somehow I talked myself into a job with the Amateur Guild of Boston. I became part of a group of young women who produced amateur shows in small towns in New England. Half of the proceeds went to the sponsoring organizations, the rest went to the Guild. After a short training period in Boston – much too short, as it turned out – I arrived alone in South Carolina where I was met by a group of members of the Eastern Star. The night-long bus trip had been exhausting and I longed to collapse in bed, but the committee ladies seemed so anxious to meet the mysterious stranger from “show business” who was to direct their benefit show. For almost two hours I sipped tea and nibbled on their fanciest cakes. The ladies were so elated to show off their finest china and most elaborate tea set that they seemed unaware that the advertised “experienced director” was about to expire. At last I was led to the room that would be my home for the next eleven days. (According to my contract I was to be fed and housed in the home of a committee member.) I did not realize at the time that the tea party was really a way of stalling for time until my room was ready for occupancy. Apparently, a young woman who worked nights at the telephone company used the room during the day. It took me a day or two to get wise. The ladies had been so hospitable and gracious that I never, until breakfast the next morning, realized that the large, Southern “mansion” was the town’s best boarding house. I guess they thought it indelicate to mention that fact.
The Amateur Theatre Guild’s venture into the South was an experiment. They had planned a foolproof scheme: get as many persons involved in the show as possible. A hundred persons caught up in acting, ticket selling and behind the scenes production would guarantee an audience of three hundred at 75 cents a ticket. There was only one hitch. To achieve this in ten days was at best difficult. To stir up an easy-going, laid-back populace in such a short time was almost impossible.
At first I was unaware that I was living in a dream world. Everyone was so polite and cooperative. Rounding up a cast had seemed so easy. At day’s end when rehearsal time arrived it was dismaying to find some of the cast members missing. Had they not assured me, “Sure, Honey, I’ll be there. Lookin’ forward to it”? And I did, too. Innocent one that I was.
Apparently, they could not bring themselves to tell me the truth: “Sorry, lady, I wouldn’t be caught dead in that show of yours.” Or, “If Jack Smith wants to make an ass of himself, OK, but count me out.”
The business men, when approached to buy an ad in the program also had a charming way to soften the blow as they said, “The Eastern Star’s a wonderful organization, but Honey, my budget’s all used up. Wish I could help y’all, but come see us soon again, y’hear?”
What they really itched to say was, “Who do you think I am, Santy Claus? I’ve been buyin’ an ad from your group for ten years and it hasn’t brought me a nickel yet.”
Mentioning the Amateur Theatre Guild only made matters worse. Most of the time good manners stopped them from slyly accusing me of “takin’ all the money outta town.” In Boston we were trained how to cope with that. The scheduled parade would bring business into town, we would tell them.
On paper, the Southern venture had looked like a great idea, but after a few disappointing months the project was given up.
I should have learned from my school friend, Jeurdie, before I set foot on that Greyhound bus. Southerners are bright and charming, but if you need to get things done fast, stick to us rude-speaking, quick-moving Yankees.
Post script
This piece was written some months before Southern manners were challenged to a real test. The inhabitants of the Gulf States were just starting to recover from the devastation of Hurricane Katrina when they were recently hit by an even more terrible catastrophe, now being called the “greatest environmental disaster in our country’s history.” For more than a month, as they watched the fumbling efforts of scientists, government agencies and oil company big wigs to halt the effects of the oil spill, the people along the coast held their tempers. Now their emotions are building to a rage. Patience and good sportsmanship are things of the past. There are limits to stoicism in the face of tragedy. How long will it take for the victims to revolt and take the future into their own hands?