STEREOTYPES AND DUNKINS AND GRITS

Every so often I pop south of the Mason-Dixon Line.  There isn't anything unusual about this, except that growing up a Northerner, there was always a certain excitement about crossing the line, kind of like we were getting away with something.  It was like crossing the line into another country, like crossing into Canada but without all the pomp and cavity searches.

Before we go any further, I need to be painfully honest here.  Stereotypes have basis in facts.  They're like archetypes gone bad, and that's why so many people get all up in your face when stereotypes are thrown around.  I'm not going to deny that the stereotypical New England behavior has some basis in archetypal reality: We talk damn fast, we drop the letter "r" whenever possible, Sam Adams really is our beer of choice even though the picture on the bottle is Paul Revere, we drink a shitload of Dunkins coffee, and "wicked" is equally correct as an adverb, an interjection, and a stand-alone adjective.

That being said, I forget I am down in the southern states until I go to the hotel breakfast buffet.  Tucked alongside the oatmeal station are packages of Quaker Oats grits.  Grits.  I've heard of them but have no idea what they actually are, so I look grits up online.  Apparently, grits are some kind of corn by-product.  I'm not sure how closely related grits are to Cream of Wheat or Cream of Rice, but they are definitely not related to Cream of Corn in a can.  Either way, I am definitely at breakfast south of the Mason-Dixon Line because there are grits and people know how to eat them.  People, that is, except for me, because I'm a damn Yankee and don't know about anything for breakfast that doesn't come directly out of the Dunkins case.

Just when I manage to get through breakfast without outing myself as a Bostonian, I'm driving along, minding my own business as a typical New Englander with a "don't-bother-me" attitude would be, when I hear a tremendous roar passing me on the left.  In my neighborhood, this sound means one thing and one thing only -- a Hispanic from Lawrence is making an illegal lane pass in his souped-up, illegally nitro-ed, chop-shop Toyota with dual exhaust and a sound system blasting so much bass that it registers on seismographs as far away as Quebec.

Nope.  It's a UPS truck.  Yes, Brown is leaving me in the dust and heading for its victory lap after capturing the checkered flag.  Apparently here in NASCAR country, even the UPS drivers consider themselves the second-coming of Richard Petty (whom I happened to have loved and admired, so don't be dissing my NASCAR crush).

By the time I head North again, I realize that I haven't really had enough time to assimilate into the culture.  However, when a little Spanish-influenced vehicles blows by me on route 114 along the Lawrence line, I do have to look twice.  After all, I'm expecting it to be another southern UPS truck.

I know, I know.  Stereotypes are terrible, y'all.  Or is it all-y'all?  I'll figure it out on my next trip.  After all, the new grandbaby is a Southern gal, so Mr. Mason and Mr. Dixon and I will be seeing a lot more of each other.  I think I'm going to have to try grits on my next trip, though, just to blow the New England stereotype right out of the donut shop.