It’s about time. Governor Jeb Bush has ordered
the permanent removal of the confederate flag from our capital building in
Tallahassee. Actually, the flag was not flying over the capital. It was
merely part of a display depicting flags of the various countries with whom
Florida has been aligned, including France, Spain and yes—the Southern Cross
battle flag of the Confederate States of America.
Problem is, the confederate flag is seen by Yankees and certain (but
definitely not all) hyphenated persons as a symbol of racism and of a time
when certain hyphenated persons were held in slavery by certain other
hyphenetically challenged persons. This is not just a problem here in
Florida. South Carolina, Mississippi and Alabama have been under siege by
the Yankees for years. Georgia too has
had its problem with that flag. After a battle that lasted more than
twice as long as that war, you know the one, Georgians finally threw
up their hands and surrendered the flag.
It’s rather like the song Dixie, I suppose.
Just another symbol of racial insensitivity. Why the word itself—Dixie—is
offensive to many.
I spend most of my waking hours attempting to avoid offending anyone, and
trying to understand everyone, like perverts, liberals and other malcontents
who “feel” but refuse to think, I have decided to examine their claims.
First of all, the word, you know the one, (see how sensitive I’ve become
already) is derived from the French word DIX which means ten.
yonder (see . . . I didn’t say exactly when), banks located in the Gulf
Coast states dealt with a significant number of French speaking people.
Such persons who grew a certain type of plant which produced a white fluffy
fibrous product from which cloth is derived (I hope you noticed that I
didn’t write the name of the racist plant life) would sell their white
fluffy fibrous plant product to merchants who would
ship the white
fluffy fibrous plant product from the port at New Orleans. The Central Bank
printed its ten dollar notes with the word Ten on them as well as the French
word “DIX”. Riverboats spread these “dixes” up and down the
Mississippi—even into northern-person land where they began to refer to a
certain region of the country as DIX_ _ _ land (see, I’m still being
In 1859, a certain Northern person, Daniel Emmett
wrote the song—well, you
know the one. At least he said he wrote it. Two hyphenated-American
persons claimed that they taught Emmett the song and he just claimed it as
his own. Why two hyphenated-American persons now living among Northern
persons would wish to be in the land of white fluffy fibrous plant products
is beyond me, but I figure that after spending a few years living among a
bunch of damn-screaming Yankees—anything—even picking white fluffy fibrous
plant product would be preferable.
The song was a tremendous hit all over America
wherever it was played.
So why do liberal northern persons and
those enslaved to follow them now hate that word and that song.
“It was played at the inauguration of Jefferson Davis
as President of the Confederacy!” responded one.
“Yes indeed, and it was also a favorite of Abraham
Lincoln, who had it played at the White House,” I replied.
“But it’s racist!”
“What part? Which words?”
“Well, it’s just racist.”
“What part? Which words?”
“The whole thing, just by singing it.”
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Ok, look . . . the song is not really racist, but
since it is perceived to be racist, it offends people and
perception is really reality anyway,” he responds.
That is typical liberal—idiot hog-wash.
“Perception is reality?”
David Copperfield would love you people.
So what is the truth? Liberal Northern
Yankee-persons simply despise anything and everything that recognizes any
redeeming social value in the South, at least that which was not forcibly
imposed upon us by Northern Yankee persons. In other words—the South must
be viewed as inherently evil and but for the influence of Northern Yankee
persons we wouldn’t have indoor plumbing.
We have spent so much time and
effort trying to be neighborly to northern Yankee-persons
that they now feel compelled to tell us how it was
done in Cleveland or Buffalo or wherever. Don’t they know? We don’t care!
So the flag is gone, the word is offensive, and
the song is banned. Perhaps we can destroy all evidence that there ever was
a Confederate States of America, or at least that any of our states actually
had anything to do with it. Maybe we could start by calling a co-cola,
“pop”, trade in our grits for bean sprouts, start making fat-free barbeque
out of tofu and wear Bermuda shorts pulled up to our chest with sandals and
over the calf stretch black socks.
We would, of course, have to stop using the
word “fixing” other than in the repair sense of the word.
We would have to give up college football and
start playing lacrosse, rugby, backgammon or some other sissy northern game.
Country music would be banned and we would all
have to listen to polkas and our children would listen to rap music praising
the killing of innocent people, which would be much more easily accomplished
since personal ownership of guns would be gauche.
There would be no more dinners
on the grounds, gospel sings or baptisms in a creek. No speckled pups. No
sweet iced tea or rocking the sun down from your porch. No more fried
chicken. No all-you-can-eat
catfish or biscuits with gravy. It would now be brie on wheat crackers and tongue on pumpernickel.
No longer will we name our children Jimmy Earl
or Jo Beth or Ruby Ann. They will now be Biff or Chaz or Summer or Jasmine.
Here in Florida we will have to change the
names of Lee and Dixie counties and every Jeff Davis County from Georgia to
Texas will just have to go.
Mark Twain said that we Southerners sing when
we speak, but not anymore. Now, we must learn to talk at the decibel level
of an F-16 preparing (see, I didn’t say fixing) to take off, and be
rude and obnoxious to everyone we encounter.
Don’t you think we will all be a lot happier
Not me! Let my feet and my
heart and my soul forever be planted in a land where “gimme some sugar”
ain’t got nothing to do with Dixie Crystal. Where neighbor consoles
neighbor with a bowl of potato salad. Where old dogs and old men sit
in the shade of a big oak and bream-fish from a pond. Where old women show their grand-daughters
how to knead dough for homemade cat-head biscuits while chickens scratch around in
Where little boys play baseball in a cow pasture and grow up
loving America and flying the Stars and Stripes with
pride, and, if
they want to—wave the Southern Cross
at a college football
game or a stock car race, ‘cause it ain’t nobody else’s business. And if they want to sing
Dixie, let them learn to sing it with the love and emotion of Ray Charles.
Ray Charles is from Georgia, and nobody, I mean nobody can sing Dixie like
“Southern” ain’t about the color of your skin. Southern is about the
condition of your heart.
So, what do we
Southerners (black, white or whatever) tell the Yankees? I like what ol’
Lewis used to say . . . “Delta is ready when you are!”
Ken Revell is a syndicated columnist.