[private]My car was packed and road ready the day of my college graduation. It had taken me six months to find a friend of a friend of a friend who was looking for a roommate in Chicago.  My godmother, Elaine, was my biggest cheerleader.  She helped me follow up on leads, gave me  five thousand dollars as a graduation gift, and promised my mother that if anything happened to me it was all her fault and she would kindly take a good old fashioned ass whippin’.  That’s how much faith she had in me.  So I headed for the big city where I would shed my small town southern roots, become sophisticated and worldly, and would finally show what I was made of.

My plan was to become a writer.  Which is exactly what I did.  And yeah, what a big time cliche.  Except, I actually wrote a few books (ironically set in the south) that sold well. And a few of those books went on to become bestsellers, and a couple of the bestsellers became movies, and I raked in some dough.

By my mother’s standards, I’m doing alright.

I didn’t have to leave Charleston to do it.  But I would never have done it had I stayed.  

Except, I never stopped calling Charleston home.  How could I?  I carry it’s mark in the form of a southern twang with me where ever I go.  Granted, it’s less pronounced these days, but if you want it to hear it in full force, just piss me off. Either way,  it’s easy to tell that I am from the land of sweet iced tea, sweet potato pie, fried shrimp, and hush puppies.  Seafood, sugar and carbs are their own food groups, for heaven’s sake.  

Now, I’m heading back to Charleston to reclaim my home, continue writing, and deal with some family stuff.  ‘Cause there is always family stuff.  

I left for many reasons.  Some of them valid, but most of them just plain immature. No.  I didn’t have a harsh childhood.  Quite the opposite.  I grew up in a loving home with an overbearing mother, an obnoxious older brother, and all the nosy aunts, and drunk, but funny uncles a child could love, not to mention more cousins than a little bit.  I cut myself off from the family (other than holiday visits, weekend phone calls and post cards)  because I thought it was the best way to prove that I really was “different” from the rest, and I was happy with that.  But things change.  My priorities changed.  Being Miss Independent wasn’t such a big deal anymore.  I’ve been apart from family for twenty years and I have missed a lot.  

My family isn’t going to make it easy either.  I mean, they’re pretty glad that I’m coming home, but they are just waiting for me to unpack the last box so that they can get all in my shit.

“Why aren’t you married?” 

“What do you mean you are never having kids?” 

“Why are you coming home now?

“How in the world do you do a long distance relationship?”  

And that is just from my mother.  I know these southerners aren’t going to understand what I have with Michael.  And why would they?  It’s so far removed from what they know and believe about relationships.

I have no illusions about life in Charleston.  I hate the heat and humidity, but I hate the snow and cold even more.   I couldn’t wait to get away from the backwards politics, the overt and subtle racism, the refusal to change without a lot of kicking and screaming, the poor getting poorer, the rich getting richer, and the color line that remains. 

And yet I am steering my car down the last 100 miles of Interstate 26 straight into the belly of the beast.  [/private]