Haitches

The Rain in Spain reduces me to giggles still.  Children have made it even funnier.  Their mispronunciations and grammatical faux pas butcher the English language as much as Audrey Hepburn's put-on Cockney.  True Cockney is as unintelligible as the Cajun coach on Waterboy, just pray you catch a few key words and are an apt student of body language.  It's your only hope.

Eliza's "haitches" are particularly hopeless and horrendous.  I love the etymological roots of our letter "H."  Is it a vowel or a consonant?  Haitch or aitch?  I'll refrain from indulging myself in a grown-up Sesame Street sing along for today's letter of the day, though it might be fun.  Is it an English major thing?  A book worm thing?  I get on a letter and brainstorm all of the words I like that begin with it.  Much like after reading Shakespeare, I have to check myself to keep from speaking in iambic pentameter.  Unless you need good wording for a child's birthday party, that shit's just annoying.  The patterns or words fascinate me--the rises and falls, the harmony and dissonance.

As I start working on revising my blog's look and purpose, I thought about why I named it Mississippi Hippie Mama.   Am I really a hippie?  What on earth is a Mississippi hippie?  Why even keep Mississippi in the title?  I haven't lived there in almost ten years.

Mississippi is in me.  You can't beat it out of me.  It's not going to gradually wear away with time.  It's just there.  It's a poor and proud little state.  It gets torn down by natural disasters and it's own internal turmoil and politics, but it hops right back up.  It's a brave and giving state.  It's got the best music in the world, the best food, the best people.  Have you ever thought of all of the talent that comes out of Mississippi--the musicians, the writers, the actors, the artists?

Mississippi stays.  Faulkner nailed it when he said, "To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi."  I cannot define myself or tell my story without Mississippi in all it's complexity.

I probably would have enjoyed some of the philosophies, people, and parties of San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury in the 60's, but I would have enjoyed the new Pucci boutique on the designer row as well.  That's a big part of why I say Mississippi hippie.  Every place we have lived, people ask where I'm originally from.  "Oh, you're a Jackson girl," they say like that explains it all.  What on earth?  Are we that distinct?  I don't wear heels and makeup every single day anymore. Does the Jackson cultural equivalent of Eliza's diphthong deficiency still linger?  Apparently so.

Yes, I like yoga, wear busted Birkenstocks, diffuse essential oils, ferment things on my granite countertops, breastfeed indefinitely, embrace informed decision making, forgo sunscreen for that vitamin D, sew clothes for my kids, hoard mason jars, have babies at home, use coconut oil for everything (yes, everything), cosleep, think GMOs are the great satan, and idealize "intentional living communities."  I also love red lipstick, designer denim, a good party, the internet, setting a pretty table, vampire novels, beer, Clorox, Miss Manners, angry rock and roll for running, interior design, monogrammed stationery, finger sandwiches, and codeine cough syrup when all else fails.

It's like wearing amber with pearls or a diamond drop, both of which I've done.  I'm not picking.  The H stays.  In fact, I don't love the word hippie.  It's kind of silly, maybe even a pejorative depending on who drops it as a word bomb.  Lots of other H's fit:

Healthy, holistic, happy, helpful, homemade, happy-go-lucky, honest, hausfrau, and harmony-craving.

I am also harsh, half-cocked, hurried, hormonal, hard-headed, hasty, and maybe a dash heretical.

Most of all I'm human.  If you can't find a seemingly irreconcilable difference within your predilections or preachings, dig a little deeper.   You are one of two things--a liar or a bore.  There is no neat, simple solution.  I'm both, two things diametrically opposed--southern traditionalist and non-conforming free-spirit.  Instead of, "If you can't say anything nice, come sit by me," my motto should be, "If you can't quite fit in, come sit by me."  I usually find a way to blend the overlapping edges just like a good eyeshadow application, shifting between circles like the outfit that can go from day to night out with a change of shoes.

Don't cram yourself into one teeny, limiting box.  That's just no fun.  Be complicated, be controversial, be genuine.