Won't You Be My Neighbor?

I learned everything I know about interacting with others from Southern people. I know never to return a plate empty, always make twice as much food as you need for drop-ins, and to say “Bless their heart!” when you want to punch someone in the head. I learned to give way to my elders, mentor my juniors, and, coming from a long line of Methodists, that Baptists have their “own way of doing things.” I was taught to express gratitude for blessings and ask forgiveness for insult or injury. It is expected that you hold doors, elevators, and, sometimes, your tongue (not my strength). I’ve seen my Grandma take someone’s wash off the line when the rain started. I’ve watched my Grandpa spot children with not enough change to a Coke or a candy bar. Half of my extended family are ministers and live their lives in service. But the most defining characteristic of Southern hospitality is their relationship with doors. Every home has a front door, but you don’t use it. You come around to the back like family. And no door is ever locked. The one and only time I ever found my grandparents’ door impassable was the night I went back for my grandmother’s funeral and Californians were staying there. It was how I knew she was really gone. In Love Your Neighbor by Cindy Kenney, the Good Samaritan story is retold for the preschool set but the message is still the same: Everyone is your neighbor.

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