Yankees: Friends or Foes?

Last week, I spent three days in the New York/New Jersey area. I went up there to play a show at the legendary rock club, Kenny's Castaways, which are the old stomping grounds of artists such as Bruce Springsteen and Sly Stone.
I think some of the club's magic rubbed off on us; if not, then I've got to get this rash checked.
Now at the outset, I will tell all of you that I'm a proud Southerner. As far as my background, I was raised in Bucklesberry: Barbeque Capital of the World. I've never been inside of a Starbuck's and I think Jerry Clower should have his own stamp.
I, like you, have always made snide comments about Yankees, because we all know they've been making snide remarks about us. With that being said, I will admit that I've been fraternizing with the enemy: Yankees.
I can hear some of you reaching for your letter-writin' pen, but hear me out.
Last Saturday night, as I stood on Bleecker Street after our set, a man that looked like Joe Pesci's twin brother started asking me about North Carolina. He said that he had some relatives that had moved to Cary. I told him that Cary stood for "Containment Area: Relocated Yankees". He then said I was a funny guy, and we did the whole "Goodfellas" thing for a few minutes.
On my first trip to New York, my friends and I stepped out of the train station to find that our ride got stuck in traffic. We were all from North Carolina, and as we stepped up onto street level, we just knew that they'd find our bodies floating in the Hudson by nightfall.
I saw a couple of New York policemen across the street, so after a few hours of prayer, we crossed the street. When we asked the policeman for directions, they could tell we were from a land far, far way, so they loaded us in their car and drove us where we had to go. Now wasn't that nice
Just this past weekend, it happened again. Everyone in the band, except for me, lives in New Jersey, so I do a lot of commuting. On this particular excursion, I took a train into Newark and then I had to catch a transit train back down to Highland Park, which was supposed to be easy.
As it turns out, a country boy does not possess the DNA to figure out the intricacies of the New Jersey Transit System. Thankfully, a medical student took mercy and showed me the way.
Just for the record, it took him a while to figure it out too, so it made me feel a little better. Again, this was very nice.
Once I got on the train, a woman across the aisle said she had the New York Times, and asked if I'd like to read it. I took the paper and reading it helped take my mind off the fact that I was on a metal tube that could derail and explode into a fireball at any moment. At my stop, I gave her paper back, thanked her, and she told me to have a blessed day.
It doesn't get any nicer than that, now does it
I'm under no illusion that Southerners and Yankees will ever join hands and sing "Kumbaya" around a campfire, but I do think this automatic hatred on both sides is a little unnecessary.
One school of thought says that Yankees send their rejects to the south. If this is true, then we are judging a whole group of people based on the folks they ran out of town.
Then there are those Yankees that realize we have it better down here, so they decide to become one of us. They get into NASCAR, they shop at Wal-Mart; they even try to work "y'all" into conversation. It sounds like somebody gave Dan Rather a valium when they try to say it, but bless their hearts, they try. We accept them as one of us when they're in the room, but we share a knowing wince when they leave the room.
Although I have defended Yankees in this column, I realize there will always be Yankees that look down on Southerners, which angers me as much as anybody. Every time I hear a comedian make a joke about the South, I just remind myself that he's probably living in an apartment the size of a Port-a-John that costs about $2,000 a month. Only a Yankee would do something as silly as that.
In the spirit of bipartisanship, I say it's time to reach across the aisle and join as one. Biscuits and bagels can fit on the same plate in peace and harmony. They both taste good with butter on them; the bagel is a little chewy, but that's OK.
I want to see Volvos with Earnhardt stickers!
I want to see deer hunters drinking Starbucks!
Can't we all just get along

Jon Dawson's column appears every Tuesday and Thursday in The Free Press. You can reach him at jdawson@freedomenc.com. Check out his blog at http://jdawson.encblogs.com.