What I am not

I am a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, a friend.

I am a writer, a painter, a teller of tales, tall and true.

I am the Queen of all I that see, but also the maid, the gardener, the chief cook and bottlewasher.

I am many things, but there is one thing I am not and will never be. A man.

I have noticed of late an overwhelming trend to refer to groups of people of any sex as “you guys,” as in “If you guys would give me a minute I’ll be right back to take your order?” I have to say I really don’t like it for two reasons.

First and most obvious, I am not a “guy.” I am a woman. Even though I eschew bows, lace, all things frilly and most bright colors, except red, rarely get my nails done, and don’t have a mane of carefully coiffed hair, I am still not a “guy,” don’t want to be one, and most days thank the Good Lord that I am not one.

Second, this is Alabama, not New York, Boston, Chicago, or anywhere else north of the Mason-Dixon line where there is apparently no distinction made between the fellows and the fairer sex. We are in the Deep South. We are “y’all.”

“Y’all,” a contraction of “you all,” meaning every last little one of you, gentlemen, ladies, and children alike. Encompassing the masculine and feminine in one welcoming embrace. “Y’all” rolls off the tongue like a melodious invitation. “How would y’all like to sit on the porch with me and enjoy a cool and refreshing Tom Collins.” So nice. So civilized.

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