Southern Legitimacy Statement: Born in Atlanta, raised in North Carolina, with family everywhere in between— my Southern roots are deep. My grandmother taught me everything I need to know about the holy trinity: Elvis, blessing people’s hearts, and frying just about anything. I still call a shopping cart a “buggy” even though I live in Massachusetts.
“Holler if you need me”
I’m not sure where it came from exactly, the tradition started long before me, probably reaching back through my mother’s southern roots as something lots of parents told their children when trading goodnight sentiments. What I do know is that even before I could comprehend or store memories in my brain, every time my mom would put me to sleep she’d say, “Holler if you need me!”
It was always in a singsong type of voice, her drawl carrying out the “hauuuuul” as she turned to walk out the door. And once I was able to participate, I would respond with my whole little body, from the comfort of my tucked-in bed, “Holler if you need me too!”
It was our own version of “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,” and I cherished it.
I wasn’t an entirely anxious kid, quirky yes, but my day-to-day routine kept me distracted from anything that might worry me. At night, though, that was completely different. I was afraid of the dark and all that might be hiding in it. I was also prone to nightmares, really elaborate ones, and thunder and lightning were my mortal enemies. If it was storming or I couldn’t shake off a bad dream, I would wander into my parents’ room in the dark, poke one of them on the shoulder to pull back the covers, and snuggle in between them. I couldn’t be left alone in my bed with my thoughts.
That is, until around third grade, when I came to believe that “big girls” didn’t sleep with their parents when they got scared. Instead, I told myself that those magic words, “Holler if you need me,” made me untouchable. If I heard that phrase, my fear would dissolve— because my mom assured me that she would be listening for my yells, and I would be listening for hers. What started out as an innocent call and response, turned into a comforting necessity for me as my anxiety manifested itself at night.
I had a few other requirements for a good night’s sleep as well. There needed to be at least one light on in the hallway, for using the bathroom and seeing the face of anyone who might be approaching my room. My mom also could not close my bedroom door all the way after she told me goodnight, because if she did, what if she couldn’t hear my hollers? Except I couldn’t possibly doze off with the bedroom door completely ajar, because that just felt wrong. Instead, I settled for a crack of about three inches, nothing more and nothing less. And, of course, my Tigger stuffed animal in his bright green pajamas, the one I loved so hard my parents had to buy me a second, needed to be tucked in directly beside me.
I had a little routine going – everything would be just right, my mother would say the magic words, and I could go to sleep peacefully knowing I would be safe.
That is, unless we had a babysitter.
My parents were very social within our small town when my sister and I were in elementary school. It felt like they were always getting invited to holiday parties, progressive dinners, game nights, concerts, and the like. The babysitter they hired (typically from a rotation of a few neighborhood high school girls) would be instructed to put us to bed, which meant no “Holler if you need me.”
This just didn’t fly with me, but I knew I wasn’t allowed to stay up and wait for my mom to come home, it would be too far past my bedtime. So, I would do my nightly routine of putting on my pajamas, brushing my teeth, combing my hair, and crawling into bed… but I would not go to sleep.
I convinced myself that until I heard those magic words, the unlikely would happen. I would create these elaborate scenarios in my brain in which criminals would bust through a window and rob us at gunpoint, or our house would be swept away by a tornado, or I would be kidnapped by a child predator who wanted to lock me in their basement, or our house would spontaneously combust. Whatever it was, I would fill the time by walking myself through the chosen plotline of the night, over and over again, determining the best escape route or plan of action.
For instance, if someone came through the front door, I could run to the unfinished bonus room above our garage, climb out the window onto the roof, and dangle from the gutter before making the one-story drop. If that didn’t work, because perhaps the hallway was engulfed in flames, I could just jump out of my bedroom window onto the deck underneath without fatal injury. I would even consider the possibility in which I was the only survivor and had to leave everyone else in the house behind. Morbid, I know.
I would lie there, my heart rate climbing higher and higher while I stared at the ceiling or picked at the threads on Tigger’s pajamas. Sometimes hours would pass and I still wouldn’t be able to lull myself to sleep.
Eventually, I would hear the front door creak open. Muffled voices exchanged a few pleasantries before my mom paid the babysitter and my dad drove them home a few blocks. I would count down the minutes until I thought she would make her way to me, thinking “Okay, first she needs to set her purse down, then maybe let the dog outside, then maybe get a glass of water, and then she will come upstairs.”
I would hear her heels click against the wooden stairs, which meant I could start to relax. I’d shift around in my bed a little and barely crack open my eyes to make it seem like I was just being awakened from a light sleep. She would walk through my bedroom door, smelling of white wine and rose-scented perfume, lean over my bed, and give me a kiss on the forehead, her jewelry dangling and clinking together like a windchime.
“Sleep tight. Holler if you need me,” she’d whisper.
