I recently learned that people in Virginia - that’s people in general, certainly not every one of them - have a keen distaste for the state of Maryland and its contents. I don’t know why this is, much as I cannot explain to you why people from Michigan look south to Ohio with disdain, even though I myself hail from Michigan. In Ann Arbor, directions to Toledo are typically given as “South until you smell it, then east until you step in it.”
What I find more amusing, though, is the animosity between Virginia and West Virginia. I hear a lot about this, given that I have now lived in West Virginia and worked in Virginia for years. When Virginians hear that I live in West Virginia, they often have all manner of hilarious comments for me. I’m sometimes asked if I have a “yard car” or not (I don’t). Once, on a business conference call (yes, really) a woman who shall remain nameless (though who I’ll tell you I secretly referred to as “Scout Finch”, because that’s who she reminded me of) took a shot at West Virginia. I told her, as I’ve told others, “Being from the north, the thing I don’t understand is why you Virginians act like there’s some sort of a difference.” Clearly, this touched a nerve, because she shot back with some hostility, “There is a difference - we don’t chase our brothers and sisters around.” In a fit of quick thinking the likes of which I have experienced neither before nor since that moment, I replied “That’s only because they don’t run.”
She didn’t even try to recover. Someone tried to come to her aid with some dumb comment about ice fishing in Michigan that sort of fell flat, the awkward silence passed, and the world moved on.
You see, the thing is, I really work in Northern Virginia, most of the inhabitants of which it would seem consider themselves a completely separate state from not only West Virginia (which they are), but also from the rest of Virginia (which, of course, they are not). You will almost never hear anyone from Northern Virginia say they live in Virginia; they almost invariably will tell you they’re from Northern Virginia. But I remember in 5th grade having to learn all the states in alphabetical order - you know, for that song? - and I’m pretty certain there’s no Northern Virginia anywhere on it. Just plain old Virginia. In fact, there’s no Northern anything on the list. It goes straight from North Dakota to Ohio, with no stops in between.
When I think about Northern Virginia’s identity crisis, I’m both saddened and amused. Northern Virginia is like the south’s very own Quebec. If you’re not familiar, Quebec is the province of Canada where everyone speaks French, acts French, thinks of themselves as French, and looks down upon the rest of the country for not being as French as they are. As far as Quebec is concerned, they’re more French than they are Canadian. What they don’t seem to grasp, though, is that France doesn’t claim them. France will happily tell them they are, in fact, a bunch of Canadians in denial. Similarly, Northern Virginians seem to fancy themselves part of the north (hence the Northern).
Sadly, as a genuine, bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool, has-forgotten-more-about-being-cold-than-Northern-Virginians-will-ever-know northerner, I’m afraid I have some bad news. If you’re reading this and you’re from Northern Virgina, first, sorry for all the multi-syllabic words and complex sentence structures, and second: You’re southern. No, really. I know news like this is hard for you to hear, but you had to hear it. You are southern. The north does not claim you. Never has, never will. Our collective advice to you is to embrace your southern brethren before it’s too late and they refuse to take you back. You don’t want to be a land-locked island nation all on your own, do you? Probably not. You’ve got a pretty nice place here, actually. It would be a shame to see it wind up that way.
Besides, the only thing worse than a southern redneck is a southern redneck disguised in a 3-series BMW or Mercedes C-class. So embrace your southernness. Do what comes natural, whether it be buying a pickup truck with huge wheels and CB antennae tall enough to hit traffic lights as you pass beneath them, or wearing one of those tight tank-top style undershirts (commonly referred to as a “wife beater”) while you peruse the aisles of Wal-Mart in search of such trendy home decor items as Billy Bass, the singing fish. Go ahead, drink Budweiser from the can, I know you want to. Free yourselves from these senseless charades!
I mentioned that in addition to being saddened by the plight of the indigenous peoples of Northern Virginia, I’m also amused. It’s because - and it took me a while to realize this - their shots at West Virginia (which, by the way, is a real state separate from the rest of Virginia (lucky them); I looked it up) are really just self-deprecating humor. It used to bother me a little when Northern Virginians waxed disparagingly about the state I now live in (even though it’s not my home), but not now that I’ve realized they’re just lashing out at what they see in themselves like chickens attacking a mirror. Whenever a Northern Virginian asks me if I have a yard car yet, I know it’s because he secretly yearns for one of his own, and wishes to live vicariously through me. I also now realize this is why Scout Finch so vehemently reacted to my gentle suggestion that, from the viewpoint of real northerners, there’s not much difference between the hillbillies from West Virginia and the hillbillies from Virginia (nor those from Northern Virginia, since we’re on the subject).
I wonder if it was a brother or a sister she’d have chased after, if only they’d had the decency to run.
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