When I first moved to the South over eight years ago, I began to pick up the vernacular. I learned what “pull the door to” means, what “cut it up” requests, and besides “y’all”, I learned a new greeting. “Hey.”

Going back in December for break, I was inundated with friends discussing my new-found ‘accent.’ While this didn’t necessarily go unnoticed myself, I was most surprised not by the references to “y’all,” but to “hey.”

As Sarah so astutely says in her entry, “Hey” can mean many, many different things. “Hey!” is different from “Hey.” which is by no means the same as “H…e…y.” No, this seemingly innocent word can mean one of many things, and to my friends, it meant that I had deserted them.

I always knew I would be going to school out of state; at least, I knew that I HOPED to go to school away from my home state of Ohio. Whether it was the weather on that day in April when I first visited the campus that hooked me or it was the three weeks of pure, adolescent revelry disguised as a summer academic program, something drew me to this fabulous school in the idyllic mecca of Chapel Hill, and no other university would measure up. (I’m glad to say that years later, with Georgetown under my belt and a frequent visitor of other beautiful schools such as UVA, this is still the case.) Very few people in my high school went out of state for college; it wasn’t that they couldn’t, mind you, but they just didn’t. There’s something comfortable about the town, something that many people return to after a stint in Chicago or Atlanta or New York, and though I understand it, I don’t think it’s for me. Yes, much to my Mother’s dismay, I don’t see myself ever living in Ohio again.

She would tell people to “teach me how to become a Southern Belle,” half in jest and yet half in seriousness. My Mom thought that the gentile nature of my roommates would somehow rub off on me, turning me from a often uncouth Ohioan into a “I’d never burp in front of you” tried and true Southerner. My roommates were more than happy to teach me their ways of the world, be it a big spritz of perfume before a date, the fact that I couldn’t wear my PJ’s and glasses when I received a late-night phone call from my crush to come over and “study,” or the constant reminder to wear lipstick. And for the most part, they’ve succeeded; I have lots of lovely perfumes, I no longer wear my Pajama pants in public, and, well, let’s just say I’m still working on the lipstick part. Yet despite my often un-rouged lips, I would consider myself a Southerner.

I still get the comments about my accent on my infrequent visits home, and I wonder what my “Ohio friends” think when they hear I have no desire to return. I hope they don’t think I’m looking down on them or their choice to return to the city, as that’s far from the case. We each go where our heart, and our life, takes us, and for me, it’s taken me to the South and politely invited me, as only a true Southerner can do, to stay. And hey, I’ve accepted.