By Kate Ebeling, Staff Writer
They say there is no such thing as southern hospitality. I tell them they’ve obviously never actually been to the South. Not trying to hate on the North, and much respect to the people that have stomached this unbearable weather their entire lives.
I can say with complete assurance, however, that the North has created a culture and way of life that is completely different from the greatest region in the United States (excuse my bias opinion).
Firstly, the phrases “ma’am” and “sir” are not common vocabulary up here. People will stare, act affronted and yes, even confront you about your origins if you say that.
The first week I arrived in Boston I attempted to be polite and call an older man at the post office “sir.” Not only was he apparently “offended,” but I was accosted of my origins and laughed at when I said “Texas.” Word to the wise: short and sweet, that’s how they do it up here. Don’t worry about respecting your elders. Just get in and get out. Forget the pleasantries and just pay for your postage.
Holding the door isn’t a requirement, and don’t even think about turning to say sorry if you brush/bump/hit someone while walking down Commonwealth Avenue. They wont even turn around to acknowledge the body contact, and you’ll look like an idiot apologizing profusely to air.
Waving to cars when you cross the BU Bridge is laughable, and drivers will smirk as you wave and sprint across the icy road, quietly praying you don’t break your neck as you sprint (late, obviously) to class. Northerners don’t care if you’re cold, so don’t complain about it. Not to mention it’s a dead giveaway that you’re a transplant. Smiling at Northerners on the street is apparently not socially appropriate as they will not smile back. They might even laugh at you
I have been the victim of all three instances, so take it from someone with experience. Just keep your head down and your headphones in, make little eye contact and march along.
Finally, fun fact for those that don’t hail from the south- y’all is an actual term. I don’t use it to be funny, I don’t do it to be cute, and it’s a legitimate word that just comes out. Born and raised in Texas, “y’all” means you guys, or as it is pronounced around here, “you’s guys.”
“Y’all” just makes more sense. It’s quick and damn right it’s cute. As a proud Texan, I’ll forever espouse the biggest regional-ist contraction. Texas forever, y’all.
By Kate Ebeling, Staff Writer
A new year means a new me. Long gone are the days of my subtle judgment on the current climate of the music industry. With the weather having gone from cold to unearthly, and Boston looking incredibly unfamiliar to a Texas native, so I’ve decided to dedicate this 2014 column to discovering Beantown from a (very cold) transplant’s perspective. Enjoy!
In case you didn’t know, Texas weather is unpredictable. Because the state is so big, weather varies from snow and sleet to hot, humid, muggy days. Hailing from Houston, I am an expert of dressing for days that top out at 102 degrees paired with 90 percent humidity.
Houston’s weather has trained me to dress well while allowing for my body to regulate temperatures and not die of a heat stroke. I say this in jest, but I can tell you that it has happened.
When I packed for Boston, I brought up six pairs of denim shorts, cute floral culottes, and skirts. Skirts for days in the park, skirts for class and skirts for long walks. August was warm, and I smugly told my parents that I was, in fact, right in bringing up all of these clothes that were highly inappropriate for normal Boston weather.
I made it all the way to Thanksgiving Break. My meager wardrobe worked by constantly washing the four pairs of pants I owned, and throwing in a couple days of sweatpants. Weekends were tough, but I made it work with a lot of the shorts and tights combo, and a lot of complaining about how cold I was. By the time I came back from Christmas Break, I knew that the snowpocalypse was coming. It was time for the shorts to retire.
Forget the infantry, I had to bring in the big guns.
Firstly, pants are a must. No matter how cut your calves are, no matter how skinny your ankles look in those mini shorts, pants are the only way to go. Pants and tights are the new shorts and tights; the added warmth is a solid bonus. Secondly, forget the crop top. I’ve made many attempts to work the crop top while there is a solid half-foot of snow on the ground, and it’s not worth it. Trust me. Your belly button will thank you.
Also, jackets. We all know you don’t want to carry your jacket to a party. You don’t want to look bulky and lame walking through Allston or down Comm. Ave., but as someone who is used to wearing crops and denims for about 11 months out of the year, the jacket is worth it. I don’t care how “used to 11 degree weather” you are, bring the jacket. Always. You will thank me as you stumble back to your dorm, unable to feel your face and hands, as the snow falls in your hair.
And finally, never wear heels. I wore cowboy boots to parties back home. And kids wore them to school. Yes, that is a real thing. And yes, cowboy boots have heels. Little ones, but even those are too much to wear on a slick, long walk like Comm Ave. Too many people to watch you eat it if somehow you manage to lose your balance.
As a Texan taking on Boston, I hope all those who are also transplants heed my advice: never underestimate the power of mother nature, especially on the east coast.