To Be A (Southern) Lady

My mother’s people are from Los Angeles, but before that, they lived in The South. Alabama, Texas, and Oklahoma to be precise, but back further, their families move in and about the southern states. My grandma tells me stories of seeing Shirley Temple herself getting a spanking in a department store in Alabama. They’re the same age.

Being a Southern woman carries a certain weight and prestige. White or black. I watched Sylvie’s Love the other night and Sylvie carried that same air I see in pictures of my grandmother and great-grandmothers.

My mom was a junior high teacher. She wore lipstick, high heels, and had her nails perfectly manicured. It wasn’t vanity, it was part of being a lady.

As a child I dreamed of one day becoming a lady. I am 42, and I continue to dream of being a lady one day, but I just never got the hang of it. I don’t know if it’s because I rebelled against the obligation, if I was too lazy, or if I escaped society’s expectation being born in a different place and time.

I realize it’s not too late to choose some of the traditions of my elders, and I am choosing to have fun with it. One of those traditions is to have long beautiful finger nails.

For Christmas this year, my mom sent me some fake nails to try out. They were so neat! I didn’t love the color, but they stayed on. I decided to try out something that I like myself.

They stayed on for a whole week! They could have lasted longer, but I got sick of them and wanted a different color.

In the past, I will pain my nails and scrape everything off in the next day. I can’t scratch these nails. I can’t bite them. They just exist and look pretty.

I went to a store and found other colors. I’m currently wearing these.

I wish I could adequately explain why this delights me.

Have any of you had fantasies of the woman that you would be when you grew up? I’ve always imagined myself with perfect hair, nails, make up, and a nice figure. Basically, I figured someday I would grow up to be like my mother. At some point. I am her daughter.

As I look back at pictures, I can find plenty of pictures of myself perfectly coifed, but I just never felt like I quite nailed it. Not like a Southern Lady. Not like my mother.

Why does it even matter? Why does being a lady mean anything to me? I’ve spent years with short unkempt nails and it’s never done me any harm. So why does it matter now?

I think it’s about endowing myself with the same inner strength that I see when I look at pictures of my favorite women. It isn’t about what they’re wearing. It’s about how they’re wearing a choice. They embody a decision. They are who they are because they mean to be that way. More often than not I find that I settle into an appearance that happened to me. My looks are a combination of genes, weather patterns, time I didn’t take, and money I didn’t spend.

I want to embody a woman who took the time to become. I want to be a lady who chose to have hot pink nails. I want to be a woman who chose to wear sparkly make up and a warm blue sweater. I want my persona to be carefully curated by me, and not just by circumstances out of my control.

That is what it is to be a lady.

Whether your home is burning from Sherman’s march or your family farm is failing because of the dust bowl, choose to gather flowers into a milk vase and set out the table cloth. Press your old skirt and paint your nails. Sit up straight. Hold your head high. Honor the choices you have, even when all other choices are slipping away.