Just Enough Redneck

I get excited about things.  I try to be all reserved and conservative and formal, per tradition from my family of origin.  But being Scottish, we also tend to get passionate about things.  We can also have fiery tempers, if ignited.  Many in my family have red hair.  You do the math.

Take my dad.  He knows what to do, when to do it, what to wear, how to act.  He’s a gentleman, just as he was reared to be.  He is comfortable in any social setting.  He can comfortably talk to people deep in the country who have no teeth and barely have running water.  You could also take him to Buckingham Palace to greet the royal family.  But if you know him, he lets you know how he feels, and he’s very open about things ticking him off.  If he needs to be polite, he will simply *leave.*  However, if you are family, close friend, etc, he will just tell you he’s mad.  You will likely be able to figure it out before he tells you, too.  He’s very healthy about expressing his anger.  It’s almost always at some degree of boiling.

Not me.  I’m one of those silent simmerers.  It builds inside me while I smile, or just simply keep to myself.  Then, without warning, I will explode.  Those in my path are petrified off-guard, like the stony victims of the Pompeii volcano.  “What?”  “I didn’t know she was mad.”  “I didn’t see that coming.”  “Better give her a wide berth from now on.”  I’m not proud of it.  It’s just how I am.

The good side is the passion and enthusiasm that I have for good things.  I believe in Jesus.  I believe in the Made in the USA movement.  I believe in protecting people who cannot protect themselves, in feeding the needy, in supporting certain other Christian causes, and in the right to bear arms.  I love my state and my hometown.  Ask me.  I can excitedly tell you why any of these causes is important or dear to my heart, and I can make a case for why you should feel the same way.  With enough coffee, I’ll even pace, jump around and gesticulate while I’m talking.

But when I get angry . . . oh, my.  I have just enough redneck girl in me to make me scary.  It doesn’t come out often.  It’s mostly kept in check by daily prayer and Bible reading, by my education, by my status as a former debutante, and by my more noble pursuits such as Junior League involvement.  But the redneck girl makes an appearance when she sees grave injustice, wilfull stupidity, rising evil, and the like, and said injustice or stupidity or evil doesn’t listen to reason.  Enter the redneck girl.  Oh, she also detests inconsideration.  But rudeness doesn’t offend her unless directed at her son or her mama.

She’s disguised behind correct grammar, good hair (no dark roots), and a Talbot’s wardrobe.  She’s trained to win verbal and written arguments (by a law school known for its trial advocacy program), and she’s always loaded for bear.  I really don’t like to let her out of the tool shed, for fear she will run over me with a tractor or hit me with a tire iron.

Few have seen her.  Even fewer have been on the receiving end of her wrath.  But now you know.  Better safe than sorry . . . don’t summon her.  I’ve never seen her lose a fight.