Why Linda With an "R"

"My friend Linder and I went ta Wahwick to buy a sofer at Cahdi's"

??????????

This was one of the first of many sentences that I heard upon moving to Newport, RI that baffled my Texan ears. I actually stopped to make sure what I was hearing was indeed English. Translated, the sentence is "My friend Linda and I went to Warwick to buy a sofa at Cardi's." I actually believed this poor woman's name was Linder. What a horrible thing to do to a person.

After a year and a half in Chicago, my fiance Katherine and I have returned to Newport to work with the newly formed Marley Bridges Theatre Company. When we worked here before we were housed in a historic mansion and catered mostly to tourists from all over the world, but rarely did we encounter the natives. This time around I'm in the midst of them.

I'm working at a coffee shop right in the middle of Newport. When I say "right in the middle" I mean right in the middle of where the locals congregate. This is far from the historic mansions of Bellevue Avenue or the pricey restaurants of the wharves where millionaires dock their yachts. This is where the blue-collar workers of Rhode Island come to laugh, work, play, and socialize. They are a different breed with a different culture, and oftentimes, a different language.

Now, let me preface this by saying that I love the natives. They are a fascinating breed of people with a great love of life. They are just so foreign from what I know. I am a fifth generation Texan. That means that I, my mother, my mother's father, my great-grandfather, and my great-great-grandfather were all born in the great state of Texas. At least that's as far back as we can prove. It may go further. In elementary school when we had to do genealogy reports I remember hearing other kids say, "I'm Irish" or "I'm French". I always just said that I was a Texan. It's still that way. When I was studying in Italy the other students would always tell the locals that they were American. I always said I was Texan. They all knew where Texas was while few knew where Illinois or Minnesota were. Texans are a special breed.

While I share that strange Texan pride that we all have, a pride that far exceeds the patriotism of any other group, I have always said I cannot live there. I think I have too much of that cowboy independent spirit in me to live in a state that voluntarily keeps re-electing an obvious idiot-buffoon like Rick Perry...but this isn't a blog about politics. It's about people and culture.

My father taught me as a child that anything north of the Red River was considered "yankee territory". My grandfather taught me that the difference between a yankee and a damned yankee was that a damned yankee wouldn't go home. Now, I know that this term "yankee" brings up racially charged imagery for many Americans, but for us it simply meant one of those inferior non-Texans. While we shared a sort of kinship with Southerners (Alabamans and Georgians are like strange but lovable cousins), anyone from the north was so far removed from our culture that we couldn't identify at all.

I have learned since living here in Rhode Island that there are few differences between the New Englander and the Texan. I told my dad that the locals here are just like the hicks back home with the exception that the hicks back home at least pretend to be polite. It's that Southern charm and hospitality. Take, for example, the following exchange first in Texan and then in Yankee-speak:

Texan one: "Bless her heart, have you seen how big Linda's got?"

Texan two: "You could move in!"

Now in Yankee:

Yankee one: "Damn, Linder is fat."

Yankee two: "Like you got room to talk."

I will admit that I do love the Texan trick of placing a "bless her heart" in front of basically anything and using it as a free license. You can say anything if you add those magic words. "Bless his heart, he ain't got sense to pour piss out of a boot." The yankee is more direct. More honest. Less polite. This can be both disarming and strangely refreshing. Sure the people here are rude, but at least you know where you stand.

And speaking of where you stand, don't stand anywhere near the roads here. Particularly if you're anywhere near the world's worst drivers: The Massholes (drivers from Massachusetts). But that's a subject for tomorrow.