THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, December 23, 1995 TAG: 9512220021
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A10 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Opinion
SOURCE: By SCOTT PATTERSON
LENGTH: Medium: 78 lines
``You're not from New York, are you? You're from the South, right?''
``No. Um, and yes.''
``What state?''
``Virginia.''
``Where in Virginia?''
``Chesapeake. It's near Virginia Beach and Norfolk.''
``Oh. Where's that?''
I didn't know I had a Southern accent. In Virginia, where I've lived for 12 years, I really don't. After moving to Manhattan this summer to break into the magazine business, I found that I quite obviously do have a recognizable Southern accent - and that means more about how people perceive me than anything from my personal history. It means I am a Redneck, capital R.
I am a Southerner. In New York, Southerner translates into a stereotype known universally as Redneck as if it were a tautological equation. Forget my master's degree in English from James Madison. Forget my stellar career at Great Bridge High (3.1 average, by God!). Forget that I was born in San Diego. I am Southern ergo. I am Redneck. (Have you ever heard a Redneck use Latin?)
Of course, everyone doesn't react in this prejudicial manner. Some see me as a strange voyager from a tropical paradise. ``Oh, Virginia Beach, it's so beautiful there. Warm all year too.''
Excuse me?
Oh, I don't deny that I've had my own superstitions and stereotypes about New York: the violence, the rudeness. I considered jujitsu lessons at first, then a wide array of handguns. I watched Sam Kennison tapes and listened to Howard Stern to practice being a jerk. I finally decided I would ensure my safety most decisively by never going outside. New York City was a ``jungle,'' a seething nest of vipers and villains who would rather slit my throat than spit in my face.
I was not alone in my misgivings. When I first moved to New York, a wise adviser warned me with a solemn look in the eye to keep my cash in several pockets when venturing into the city. Thus, supposedly, after rushing wildly (from my rat/roach infested home) through a gauntlet of gruesome thieves who were sure to have filtered through half of my pockets (some at gunpoint), at least a few dollars would remain. What sort of picture I had in my head after this warning I can only imagine now, but needless to say I was deeply troubled.
Anyone who has been to New York knows that this warning came entirely from media-induced paranoia. Of course, the occasional pocket is picked here, and much worse. But one can usually go outside without fretting for one's billfold, as the outrageous prices at all the restaurants attest.
The most common crime in New York City is jaywalking. This blatant violation of the social contract is so pervasive here that it has become the norm and goes unnoticed. One may rush out into the middle of Broadway in moving traffic observed by a large group of police officers haply grazing on doughnuts and not merit even a menacing belch.
The real danger of jaywalking is the likelihood of stepping in front of a cab driver whose limit has at last been reached and is quietly muttering, ``Today I kill you.'' And this happens. Hundreds of people are run down every year in New York, some by cabs. Yet people still dart into the roads oblivious to the oncoming bus or fire truck. Many industrious pedestrians see the opening created by cars moving for an ambulance as a golden opportunity to sprint across the street. One can only imagine what the passenger inside the ambulance, his or her life trembling in the balance, might say about such industry.
There is an irony in all of this. The term ``jaywalking'' derives from the antiquated pejorative attribution of ``jay'' to someone from the country: a bumpkin, rube, hick. Jaywalking therefore was once looked upon as uncivilized behavior conducted only by those ignorant of ``city ways.'' Jaywalking literally means ``stupid-walking.''
May I extend the metaphor? New York City, a city infested by jaywalkers, is a city of ``jays,'' a city of a-hem, Rednecks? The barbarians are now no longer at the gate; they are the gate-keepers. And I feel perfectly at home. MEMO: Mr. Patterson a Rolling Stone intern. by CNB