We live in the South, and it didn’t take long before we noticed how some performed Southern and class as a way to survive. Friends from out-of-state tell me it’s not just in the South anymore. I’m not talking about people from here who see me at political gatherings and cross the room to corner the Yankee and lay it on Southern so big they can embarrass me before I embarrass them. That’s different. I’m also not talking about criminals who roll through small Southern towns and act like they are from here so they can rob and pillage.
I’m talking about a whole bunch of everyday vanilla grifters laying it on, people from California to the Midwest who speak and perform like they are from the South, pretending they have less in the bank, and never allow anyone inside their homes, so they fit in and look country when they leave their homes with a hemp rope around their dog’s neck not a genuine leash.
Recently, when I asked someone who spoke with a pronounced twang, she shot back,
“No, I’m not from the South, but I sure wish I was!”
My born-and-raised-here girl posse can sniff out fake Southerners in two syllables, and I admire the calculated and gentle way they suss-out fakers. It’s the bless-your-heart ladylike composure and coy smile right before the gentle volley,
“Where are you from?”
My graduate lecture at Bennington Writing Seminars was on “Class-Anxiety in Literature,” and I have been known to lean on this book for guidence. Skip it if you are easily offended.
Mary Louise Penaz 
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