THE TAR HEEL STATE
DRAPER’S PAPER ROUTE
THE TAR HEEL STATE
by Adam Carroll Draper
We moved to Sanford, North Carolina on my eighth birthday. This is not a Jerry Jeff Walker song. I was not born in Oklahoma, but my mom and dad were. No, I was born in Phoenix. We came to North Carolina after having moved to Illinois and New Jersey. By eight, I thought I was like Al Pacino’s character in The Scent of a Woman saying, “I’ve seen a thing or two, ya know!” (It’s an anachronism – go with it).
Sanford, North Carolina in 1972 was a culture shock to a Roman Catholic who had just moved from New Jersey. I thought a Yankee was a baseball player, for one. The first morning there I encountered something bizarre, something that looked like cream of wheat came with my eggs at breakfast. George Carlin explained it best.
“What’s that white stuff?”
“Hell, them’s grits.”
“They’re moving, man!”
So the Roman Catholic yankee from New Jersey (who was not a yankee and not really from New Jersey) showed up a Grace Christian School in Tramway (a suburb of the Sanford sprawl) to cheers. They were moving my chair out because we had moved a few weeks later than anticipated. Thus began my introduction into southern living (as it were). Right off, I had no real sense of where I was supposed to be going because I did not know where “yonder” was. I also responded oddly to the most benign of greetings.
“Hey, Adam.”
“What?”
“Uhmm, hey!”
Some things were simply foreign. I wore red Converse All Stars. I was proud of those shoes and had been lobbying relentlessly for them. They made some sort of statement in Sanford that I had no way to comprehend.
“You’re a State fan?”
“What?”
“Your shoes are red. You like State or Carolina?”
“Uhmm, this state is Carolina.”
Eventually, I came to love this North Carolina place. And I am a Tar Heel (two words, people!) means I love The University of North Carolina. Went there. But it also means I love this state. I got used to the fact that State and Carolina fans really do not like each other at a fundamental level, but we tolerate each other’s flawed priorities because we love each other. Then, we argue about whether Lexington style barbecue is better than Eastern style. Then, if you are really going to get down it, some of us will argue about why NASCAR allows Fords to slow everyone up – while the Toyotas are winning (just sayin’).
OK, I just started two more fights over stuff I could care less about (I like both kinds of barbecue and I don’t watch NASCAR), so I am going to stop here – except to point out that I have made no mention of that school eight miles from Chapel Hill (called dook) because schools from New Jersey don’t count. Mull that one over for a second. I was born in Phoenix, so shut it!
Last week, I wrote about diversity. This, right here, is an example. We can’t agree on barbecue or teams, but we still love each other. Mercy, y’all (huh, I said, “Y’all”), there is a big ole world out there. Stef and I were down in Charleston and they served some mustard based barbecue sauce down there. And it’s good. (It ain’t Speedy’s, but it’s good). They make this stuff in Texas, called brisket… O My God! That’s good. Ever eat ribs in Memphis? Just sayin’!
We just need to remember the warden in Cool Hand Luke, “What we have here is failure to communicate.” We can do this thing, America!
Oh, and one last thing: GO HEELS!