Social Grease
Social Grease, subtitle?
I was raised, part of my familial line derives from a long series of hardcore Southern Matriarchy. Big time.
That means I was raised with a branch of my family insisting on “good manners,” and decorum, even in the face of adversity — reminded me of the great Southern example.
Young lady from the Deep South goes north to school, and in that first round of Boston/New York introductions, her gregarious and genial Southern manners, “Hi! Where ya’ll from?”
“We are from an educated place where we know not end our sentences with a preposition.”
Smiling, “Well,” she drawls back, “where ya’ll from, bitch?”
While I have immense respect? Especially given just such an example? I wasn’t raised under that matriarchal banner. However, as noted, I was raised to be polite, even in the face of adversity or snooty, uppity bitches.
The other afternoon I was grabbing an iced shot of espresso at my local place. I’m known, I’m a known quantity. I’m not a harmful predator, not a dirt-bag, and I do tip appropriately, so, like, “We’re cool.”
Woman behind the counter asked something, then made a funny comment as a rejoinder to my answer, and it was all good. I tossed off a comment, “Thanks, sweetie,” as I shuffled out the door.
In these days of overly political correctness, fractured sensibilities, and misunderstood generics, it wasn’t a sexist, white-privilege, male-centric comment. Just a soporific bit of social grease.
Woman’s from Louisiana, I think, and although damn near San Antonio native, she understood. However, in the wrong setting, I guess even my old-fashioned ways of just suggesting, “Hey, darlin’” can be misunderstood. I didn’t stop to ask, but there was that tinge of sorrow, I couldn’t just be a grateful patron without someone taking umbrage.
Not meant that way, and in that setting, I was regarded as all good.
Social Grease
Social Grease, too subtle?