True, I was born in California and grew up in Florida, which is such a melting pot that it’s not really the south—not unless you’re in Clewiston or Macclenny or Bithlo or someplace like that-- but I'm still a southern girl. I say “Bless her heart” after I say something unflattering about someone (I won’t admit to gossip), and that’s about as southern as you can get. My legitimacy honorable mentions: I had a Mawmaw and Pawpaw, I used to say “anyways,” and I still say “yall.”

Southern Legitimacy Statement: My parents are native Californians who moved to Tennessee before I was born. I married a Pennsylvanian. I can’t abide sweet tea, sweet desserts, egg salad, or chitlins. I never developed much of an accent, apart from “y’all” (with an apostrophe). The fervor of Civil War re-enactors and NASCAR fans has always puzzled me. Nevertheless. Tennessee, Alabama, Kentucky, Georgia: I have lived here all my life, and I am as much Southern as I am anything else. The South, for me, is a James Agee summer night: lightning bugs in a jar, invisible chirping crickets, everything familiar and settled, the world at relative, temporary peace. But the South is also a state of mind, a sort of vigilance, a waiting—and a fecund, green place where the strangeness and play of poems is made possible.

Southern Legitimacy Statement: Raised and fed by a Southern lady from Chattanooga, who taught me good eating and good manners. When I die and go to heaven, I’m praying the heavenly banquet will include: Fried Livermush Pintos (with pork in them) Green beans (with pork in them) Collards (with pork in them) Corn bread (with pork cracklins in it) If there is no livermush or pigs in heaven, then–if I have my ‘druthers–I reckon I’ll have to stay right here in North Carolina.