When you’re a Mississippian…

When you’re a Mississippian, you’ll know someone everywhere you go. Heard of six degrees of separation? We do it in two. And if you know someone’s mama — well, two degrees gets shaved to one.  We’re one big happy family.

Land in Hartsfield/Jackson Airport (the ATL to the seasoned traveler) and be prepared to run into at least a dozen people you know. But this only applies to Mississippians.  If you’re from anywhere else, say like Idaho, you won’t know a soul.  But if you are a Mississippian, it will quickly become a high school reunion. Or a family get-together.  Or a Bunko road trip. Look! Over there, there’s the First Baptist Glee Choir flying to Seattle!

And it doesn’t stop in C Concourse. When you get on your flight, you’ll know someone. It’s even money you’ll end up sitting next to your aunt’s second-husband’s banker’s wife’s daughter.  And you’ll know her.  You’ll also know she is hiding her pregnancy from her mom.  And you won’t think anything is unusual about knowing it.

When you’re a Mississippian, you try to make connections with total strangers in the weirdest places.  I was once in a cab heading from New York’s LaGuardia Airport and I asked the cabbie who his mama was.  Really. He was from Pakistan.  His mama didn’t know me from Abdul’s house cat.  But I went ahead and asked anyway.  (My wife slipped down, out of view out of pure shame. Or fear. Our driver was driving like he just learned how to drive — and he probably just did.)  By Yankee Stadium, we were talking like old friends. I think we were 75th cousins twice removed.

A Mississippian also speaks to total strangers.  That’s OK in the South. You get a pass. But up north, well, people look at you like you’re a serial killer from Hoboken.  I made the horrible mistake (in the cashier’s eyes) of speaking to him when I was buying some aspirin.  I also had the audacity of making eye contact with him.  And for the record, no Mr. Cashier, I don’t do that to myself.  Thanks for the suggestion.

My wife and I were walking down Broadway in the middle of Manhattan.  We ran into friends who we didn’t know were traveling.  It happens. But only if you’re a Mississippian.

I even caught myself doing the uniquely Southern thing of waving at the cabs going down the street. And they were nice enough to wave back. With one finger.

Bless their hearts.  I bet I knew their mamas.