HELLFIRE
&
GEMSTONE
The Old Art of Agency
for the New Southern
Woman
Wren S. Austin
Title P age Number
3
Preface
Cotillion Princess 9
The New Southern Woman’s
Creed 10
A Letter to My Grandmother
Bless Her Heart 12
From The Desk of Susan 15
Humphries
16
Southern Lady Code
You’re Doing Great, Sweetie
18
Do You Know How to Wear
Clothes?
20
Be a Slut. Do Whatever You Want.
PCOS 21
23
24
[Defending Social Change: A Prelude of Sorts]
A Note on Purpose
The “Southern Belle” trope is, for some, their only understanding
of Southern women. It is so often an untried perception, one that fully
excludes those who fall outside of set standards of race, sexuality, and
socioeconomic status. The South, or rather the cultural South, is an
incredibly diverse place, but the homogenization of society put forth by
the current understanding of what (not who, w hat) a Southern woman
is is simply irresponsible. This myth is a complete disservice to all
women, no matter their situation. This project seeks not to edit the
current bounds of what makes Southern womanhood what it is, but to
burn them and build from their remains something that is not a label,
but a way of life. It seeks not to prescribe womanhood or to lay out a
distinct definition of what Southern women must be, but to create a
collective understanding based upon lived experience. It seeks not to say
what Southern women must be, but who they a re.
Where is the South?
For the purposes of this collection, I’ve opted to focus not on the
geographically-defined South, but the cultural South. The culture of,
say, Georgia, is very different than Southern California despite the fact
that parts of the two share a line of latitude. However, there are still
geographic patterns regarding this cultural South. After surveying over
thirty fellow Southerners, I’ve chosen to define the “cultural South” as
an area that includes states below the Mason-Dixon line and East of
Texas. Although there have been disagreements on “how Southern”
certain states’ cultures are, especially pertaining to Maryland and
Southern Florida, this definition of the cultural South functions most
effectively for the purposes of these works.
What is this Culture?
The tenets of Southern culture, or at least the culture against
which this work functions, are fairly well-known. The presence of
religion, particularly evangelical Protestantism, is quite heavy, so much
so that the area is often referred to as “The Bible Belt.” Where there is
food, there are gatherings, and where there are gatherings, there is food.
If it can be fried, it shall be fried, and barbeque is a way of life. Iced tea
flows freely and, if it’s a soda, it’s a “Coke.” Hospitality is a staple, of
course, but don’t assume that it’s always a gesture of kindness; the nicest
people talk the most shit. It’s a culture that I believe that everyone
should experience at least once in their lifetimes because, despite its
downsides, it can be so beautiful and so rich.
What is this Culture for Women?
For Southern women, grace and elegance are often valued
qualities. Beauty is not only encouraged, but expected. Many of the
women around whom I was raised refused to go to the mailbox without
makeup, let alone school, work, or the local Walmart. They were
well-spoken, never cursed, and almost always presented negative
comments drenched in a syrupy-sweet coat of bullshit. These are only
expectations, of course, unfortunate holdovers from another era. This is
not to say that all Southern women are forced into this mold, but it is
more common than many would like to admit. During interviews with
other Southern women, I found that many wished to be more upfront
and honest with people, whether in regard to physical appearance or the
words that they used. However, they still held strong to the expectations
thrust upon them because that’s just what they had to do to fit in or, on
occasion, to survive. The aforementioned expectations make up the
culture against which this work operates, not Southern culture as a
whole.
Why Did I Do this?
Most of the stories contained in this chapbook come from my own
experiences living in the Deep South. I was raised by my grandparents in
a small town in rural Arkansas while my Mom worked nights at a local
newspaper. For the first sixteen years of my life, I was deeply involved in
the church that my family had gone to since the seventies, attended and
eventually taught in the local Cotillion chapter, and participated in
shooting sports. In short, I did all the things that I was supposed to do.
Eventually, though, I found myself alienated from the community that I
once so cleanly fit into after being outed at school and, soon after,
becoming the victim of a hate crime. In 2017, a few months after things
fell apart, I was welcomed into a vibrant academic community at
ASMSA, a boarding school not far from my home. It was at that point,
living according to my personal values at school and throwing all of that
away during weekends with my family and Cotillion classes, that I
recognized the growing tension between the person who I was raised to
be—a beautiful, elegant Southern belle—and the person who I was
becoming: a crude, brain-damaged queer person with aspirations of
neverending scholarship and relative solitude. These works are a way for
me to grapple with this tension while reclaiming the label of “Southern
Woman” as something more inclusive and contemporary.
How Did I Compile these Works?
In addition to personal experience, I spent a lot of time
interviewing, whether covertly or openly, the other Southern women in
my life. My aunt unwittingly helped me to develop the colloquial
language utilized in some pieces, while friends from here and back home
aided in establishing the values that my version of New Southern
Womanhood now contains. My grandmother is also featured
prominently in my work. Despite our many (many) disagreements, she
has been an incredible influence in my life and, at 83, still kicks ass.
“Hellfire and Gemstone” really is a collective effort in the end, and I
couldn’t have done any of this without the badass Southern women in
my life.
Race and the Southern Woman
The process of creating a definition of the Southern woman,
whether new or old, demands a consideration of race and its role in
creating existence. This demand is something that I’ve pondered both as
a writer and as a woman. On the one hand, I understand the need to
address the place of women of color, especially black women, in this
collection. I don’t feel that it’s my place to say who does or does not
belong in this category, but instead to include all the voices that make it
up. However, as a white woman, I cannot claim to understand the
Black, Southern woman’s experience. I don’t want to become one of the
many voices talking over people of color, claiming to know better than
the people who’ve actually lived the experiences that I address and their
many intricacies. In truth, I don’t feel that I can accurately or
responsibly address the specific experiences of Black women in the
South. This project seeks not to lump all experiences together without
considering the role that race plays in day-to-day life in the name of
“inclusivity,” nor does it claim to be omniscient. Thus, I’d like to point
readers who wish to know more about Black, Southern women’s
experiences to Black scholars who’ve addressed the topic. These scholars
include E. Patrick Johnson, whose book, B lack. Queer. Southern.
Women., was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award, and Zandria F.
Robinson, whose blog, New South Negress, addresses the very issues
that Black women face in the South. I hope not to alienate readers
whose racial experiences differ from my own by not addressing these
issues personally, but to point any interested soul to others whose stories
are more accurate and honest than any version that I could create.
A Note on Varied Experience
The premises of most of these pieces are based upon personal,
subjective experiences, as are the attitudes expressed. Whether positive
or negative, these experiences are not necessarily universal, nor do they
claim to be. Granted, some are shared. However, if your experience,
Dear Reader, differs from these stories, that’s okay. In fact, that’s
awesome! The diversity of lived experience in the South is one of the
coolest things about it. This collection seeks not to invalidate
experience, but to tell stories that would not otherwise have been told.
In truth, I’d love to do another collection in order to tell even more
stories. I cannot apologize for my choice to elaborate on the
sometimes-difficult topics contained here, nor can I apologize for any
stark honesty regarding them. However, I will continually strive to
express the South’s many aspects, whether good or bad, with vigor,
clarity, and transparency.
The New Southern written off as defective. In our
Woman’s Creed pursuit of perfection, our
pursuit of a cceptance, it seems
that we’ve been misunderstood.
We are neither inherently bigots
As the new generation of nor damsels in distress, and the
Southern women, we may be domestic sphere is not our only
pressured to take up the habits of domain. We may be scared or
our predecessors. Some of these, unsure about what the future
such as knowing one’s way holds, but we are not powerless.
around the kitchen and being
able to charm the pants off of There are things that we
even the most difficult people cannot change, yes, but there is
(mostly figuratively, but one, very important thing that
sometimes literally), have their we can change, Ladies: our
advantages. Tradition isn’t mindsets. Allow me to propose a
always a crime or burden, after union, a collective effort for not
all. This, friends, is where we only the betterment of our image
begin. as a group, but also of our
personal selves. Today, we are to
Our traditions do not give dedicate ourselves to better. We
us permission to consider are to commit to becoming the
ourselves as superior to others. people who we wish to be. By
On the other hand, they also do accepting these stipulations and
not strip us of our worth or by taking up this creed, we
accomplishments. We were born commit ourselves to the
into a society that, on occasion, following:
requires us to be a perfect puzzle
piece, lest we be thrown out or
WE WILL: WE CAN:
1. Honor our accomplishments 1. Have success in the
2. Have the utmost respect for professional sphere
ourselves and others 2. Choose to find our places in
3. Own our opinions the domestic sphere
4. Practice kindness when
3. Take agency over our own
applicable bodies
5. Admit our faults
6. Hold our bodies in the 4. Love men, women, and those
who are neither
highest regard
7. Be generous when it is 5. Acknowledge our heritage
without worshipping the
warranted unjust
WE WON’T:
WE ARE:
1. Enter into marriage or
motherhood outside of our 1. Friends & Mothers
own, free will 2. Lovers & Loners
3. Queers & Sluts
2. Bow to tradition when it 4. Junkies
infringes upon our rights as 5. Mentally ill
people 6. Disabled & Abled
7. Rich & Poor
3. Accept the harboring of 8. Neurodiverse &
prejudice toward others
whose paths diverge from Neurotypical
our own 9. Thin & Fat
10. Athletes & Homemakers
4. Diminish our intelligence 11. Doctors & Scholars
5. Deny ourselves the freedom 12. Strong & Powerful
13. Southern Women
of choice
6. Take shit from anyone
[The Mouth of the South: A Letter to My Grandmother]
Granny,
I’m not so sure how I’m supposed to start this. Yes, I know that
that’s cliché, and that you hate when I say “that that,” and that you’d
rather I say this to your face anyway, but I don’t really think that you get
a say in this.
I know that, over the past few years, you’ve made a lot of decisions
in my life. You decided that I could go to boarding school, then that I
could move to Chicago. You decided my prom dress, my glasses, even
the clothes I wore to my first symposium. Most of those decisions were
good, and so I took them. You decided to ignore the little hints, the little
flashes of different that tainted my otherwise acceptable façade. For that
I am grateful. For sixteen years, I got to be your off-brand Barbie doll
and, somehow, it worked. When the 2016 election rolled around,
however, you made a decision that I will never, ever understand. I’ve
spent the last few years trying to grapple with, or rather, reconcile the
tension between who you are and w hat you did.
You were always like one of those mosquito lanterns for me in that
I just kept trying to follow you, but somehow got burned in the end. I
tried my best to do what everyone around us did and get behind the
ever-present wave of MAGA activists. I ignored the assault allegations
and blatantly incorrect Tweets and ate s o much Chik-Fil-A because I
wanted to be good for you. I wanted so badly to be like you because,
damn it, you’ve done it all. You’re educated and hardworking and
dilligent to no fucking end and that’s all I could hope to be. Now, I
don’t get it anymore. Why did you vote for him? Why did you vote
against yourself? Against me?
Was it a question of tradition? I think that, to some degree, I can
understand that. Things were, are, changing. Fast. I can’t imagine what
it would be like, eighty-three years into life, to see what was once
unimaginable become not only legal, but acceptable. I understand your
need to care for others and your intense commitment to your faith. I
also understand how voting red can, in your mind, achieve those goals.
However, I also know that we’re a lot alike, so I don’t understand how
you’re not completely insulted. That man has offended all of your
sensibilities and then some. Frankly, it’s fucking disgusting. I’ve never
known you to just let yourself be suffocated by convention, so why start
now? I mean, god, you went to graduate school in the rural South as a
woman in the Sixties! What’s more badass than that?
And I get that you’re voting for you, and that that’s what you were
taught to do, and that’s fine. But things are different now. Our decisions
no longer affect us alone, and I think that you know that. We can’t just
“fix” all the “evil” in the world by forcing America into this
conservative, Protestant matrix. Why would you try to shove people
into these neat little boxes when you’ve fought against that for your
entire life?
And none of this is to say that I’m not grateful, to some extent, for
your presence in my life. You know, you’re always there to catch me,
even when I get evicted from my dorm in the wake of a pandemic. So
long as I follow your rules, your support is unending. It hurts,
sometimes, to know that it all would go away if you knew the truth. I
don’t think you’d like me very much if you saw what my life looked like
on the day-to-day. We have to take what we can get, though, right?
I guess that what I’m saying here is that I don’t get it. You have no
idea how badly I want to understand you, to grapple with the tension of
your decisions in relation to the life that you’ve lived. It’s a tension that I
face in my own life, albeit in a different manifestation, so I’m not
singling you out here. I know how much you’d hate that.
I want to end by saying something that I’ve kind of been trying to
say here the entire time. This unsendable letter isn’t my effort to judge
you, your beliefs, or your decisions; you’ve had enough of that in your
life. Do I understand you? No. Do I always like the things you say? No.
But I do love you. And I love how much you care about doing what you
perceive to be the right thing. I love that you care so much about the
people around you and that you work so hard to protect them. I see
where it’s coming from and, although I don’t like where it has come to, I
respect the life you’ve lived. Stay kind, always, and if you ever find this,
I’m so sorry.
All love, always,
Lauren
Wren.
From Then to Now: A Lecture on Etiquette and Standing the Test of
Time
Mrs. Patrick (Susan) Humphries, National League of Junior Cotillions
To My Ever-Lovely Assistants:
Just as in any other field, there are works that remain relevant
despite their age. One of these texts, Emily Post’s E tiquette, makes up
the bulk of what we will teach this year not because of its age, but
because of its continual adaptability to our time. Elegance and class shall
never go out of style, after all. Thus, any deviation from our material will
not be tolerated.
I’ve some instructions for you regarding the students. For the
ladies, exemplary behavior is key. They will watch you because they
crave validation. They will mimic your clothing, so promiscuity may be
unwise unless you want them to run amock in crop tops and miniskirts.
It’s distracting for the boys. The rules of semiformal attire will be
observed. Thus, I expect them to be clean, unwrinkled, and preferably
colorful. Also, skirts are to be worn at all times. If they wouldn’t wear it
to church, they shouldn’t wear it here, and no respectable woman in this
state would wear pants to church. It’s distracting for the boys.
Small talk shan’t be tolerated, nor grandiose conversations. Ideally,
silent ladies are sweet ladies. I don’t want them gossiping. It’s
unbecoming. Ensure that they do not dance together. I don’t want any
of these subverted ideas getting into their minds. Instead, gently
encourage them to practice the steps on their own. In any case, do not
allow them to gather in shrill groups. It’s distracting for the boys. I
expect them to be upstanding, classy, and pleasant at all times like the
good little girls that they shall be.
For the boys, keep them off of their phones with jackets on. Be
patient with their mothers and keep your cool. Boys will be boys, after
all.
Thank you for your attention and I look forward to working with
you this season.
Sincerely,
Susan
Southern Lady Code: a technique by which, if you don’t have
something nice to say, you say something not so nice in a nice way
In truth, I’m not sure why I expected to be met with anything
different. I agreed to go to the party at the behest of my mother, who
had so kindly tolerated the scorpions that my grandmother called her
friends the month before. She said that everyone we cared about would
be there, even the Gentrys, an older couple who ran the local Cotillion
chapter that I had taught during high school. That should have been the
first clue that something unpleasant would go down. Mrs. Gentry had
always been a bit of a tool, ranging somewhere on the mean girl scale
between Regina George and fucking Paris Hilton if the two were old,
sour Southern women. I tolerated her for all those years because I was
obligated. Now, that obligation was over. I was, however, still tied to my
grandmother through blood and jewelry, so I donned my red pantsuit
(“very holiday appropriate,” she said) and pearls, girded my loins, and
walked into that hotel under the influence of far too much shiraz.
It was the final comment of the evening that got me. I dodged
comments about my weight (“your face looks so much slimmer,
sweetheart!”), major (“hope you have a good backup plan”), and love
life (“I don’t see a ring on your finger yet, darling.”) for a whole hour
and a half until my grandma pulled me over to see Mrs. Gentry, who’d
been nonchalantly chatting with the new Chamber of Commerce
President for much of the evening. After shooting the breeze for a
moment or two, she’d asked my grandmother something (I can’t
remember what) and, as usual, my grandmother responded. Now,
apparently, I’m the “creative type,” whatever the hell that means.
Probably a knock at the fact that I refuse to bring home the good ol’
Christian boy of Joyce’s dreams.
Sometimes I really wish she’d just go out and say what she meant.
To hell with all this “Southern Lady Code” bullshit. If she wanted to
call me a helplessly ugly lesbian with more mental illnesses than IQ
points, she really should have just come out and said it. But no. Of
course not. It had to be dainty. Well, “creative” my ass. Politeness can’t
save us, but guess what it can do? Shove it.
Do You Know How to Wear Clothes? [Or Rather, a Treatise on
Presentation and Propriety]
-Featuring text from Post’s “Etiquette,” 1945 Edition-
The woman who knows how to wear clothes is a stage director
who skillfully presents herself [O kay, so now it has to mean something?
Newsflash! I’m wearing these clothes so I don’t freeze to death in this
frozen hellscape. Next!]. This skill in presentation is something for which
it is difficult to write directions, because it is a talent rather than a
formula [Talent, right. Because it definitely takes talent to convince my
Cotillion director that this dress that I’m wearing totally came out of my
own closet and not my girlfriend’s.] Naturally, she who is young and
whose skin is clear, whose figure is model “16,” can literally put on any
hat or dress she fancies and have both become her to perfection [O kay,
Lady. First of all, it’s a hormonal disorder. Don’t be fucking rude. Second
of all, culottes are a crime and I will die on that hill.] . And yet another
girl, lacking the knack of personal adjustment, will find the buying of a
becoming hat an endless search through such trials of unbecomingness
that she buys, not one she likes, but the one she dislikes least, because she
must put something on her head [And of course it’s a hat. Because this is
the South and women must wear every hat. One must be mother,
homemaker, lover, daughter, model, actress, mattress, seamstress, chef,
and companion. In this world, you must “put s omething on [your] head”
because you can never just exist for yourself. Being anything other than
everything is simply being incorrectly female.]
The sense of what is becoming and the knack of putting clothes on
well are the two greatest assets of smartness [G od, I hate that word.
“Becoming.” Every time it’s followed by the words “of a lady,” I just want
to vomit. Because why does it matter? Why does it fucking matter? Are you
just going to take away my “woman card” if I can’t wear a hat without
looking like an egg? It’s fine that you thirst for tradition, but I refuse to be
the water that quenches it. I’m tired of being told that my worth as a
woman is determined by my ability to be one of those Barbies with the
poseable limbs]. And both are acquirable by anyone willing to look at
herself as she really is [L ook at myself as I am? Okay, fine. I am I. I am
me. I exist. I don’t have the perfect body, but I have a body that works. I
look like an absolute troll when I wake up, but at least I wake up in the
first place. I curse and I cry and I make a fool of myself on the daily, but
at least I get the option to do that. Many people don’t. So, if you really feel
the need to tell me that the things that are “becoming” of me as a lady are
floofy dresses and ugly hats, then be my guest. But if you’re going to tell
people who are just trying their best to survive that they’re not doing good
enough by your arbitrary standards, then you can pack up your so-called
“etiquette,” stop forcing me to fit into your glass slipper, and fuck off to the
frilly hell where you belong.]
“Lauren, here’s the thing. Your BMIis over 30. You’re clinically o bese.
And yeah, yeah, I get it. You say that you w ork outfive days a week and
eat rightand do all of that, but it’s not showing on the scale. I need to
you to work harder. I get that you like weightlifting and your whole
deadlifting thing is a cute party trick, but only running will get you
there. And carbs are evil. C arbs are evil. That’s the mindset that you
need to have to c ontrol yourself. I really think that all these mental
problems will go away if you lose some weight. It’ll make you
happier.” -My PCP,a family friend. I was 16.
The smell of medical disinfectants always made my chest go tight. I
think it stems from the time that my grandmother took me to the
dentist to get a cavity filled and held me down when the analgesic wore
off too early. Now they have to sedate me, or I’d bite him. Mostly out of
panic, but partially out of spite. But that’s a story for a different day.
I woke up at 8 am for my 10 am appointment. Diligently, I did my
hair, applied some makeup to cover the hormonal acne that had plagued
me for the last year or so, and threw on the outfit that I’d laid out the
night before. It didn’t matter, really. I didn’t need to dress up to go to an
appointment with my gynecologist, but that’s just what we did. “We”
was my mother. It was my grandmother and great-grandmother,
neighbors, aunts, even the ladies at church. Leaving the house without
one’s face on was practically sinful (or even literally for some people).
And so I behaved.
“You don’t remember the f irst day of your last period?It was a
month ago, tops. How do you not remember?”
“You haven’t had it?”
“S ix months,huh?”
“Oh. Well...let me note that. But I want you to see this nutritionist.
Maybe d ropping a few poundswill kick everything back into order.”
A Nurse Practitioner. I was 17. She meant well, I think. I hope.
Back to disinfectants. It had been twenty or so minutes since I
signed in. I was expecting the delay, of course, because nobody in this
office ran on schedule. Trying to ignore the burn of alcohol (and not the
fun kind) in my nose, I toyed with the fringe on my scarf. Next to me,
my grandmother read silently. We did this often. Just sat there, even at
home. Somehow, even in public, when she could only do so much, it
was still worse.
I crossed my knees and, a moment later, she thumped me on the
knee without a word. Then, I crossed my ankles, sliding my body into
that “attactive” s shape that my Cotillion director loved so much. I
sighed, tugging at the neck of my shirt. The v-neck top was a
hand-me-down and, despite the fact that it was approved by the woman
next to me, it still made me feel...icky. I didn’t like the feeling of wind on
my chest. I knew far too well what that meant in these parts.
“Lauren, I’m reluctant to put you on b irth control.It causes w eight
gain,you know. Besides, you’re not doing any kind of...thatstuff...are
you?” A Nurse at the Health Unit.Still 17.
When they called me back, they referred to me as “Lauren.” I
know that they had to, that it was my legal name, but I didn’t like it. I
don’t think I would have thought much of it otherwise, but sitting here,
on this table, in a paper gown, in a cold room gives me ample time to
think. To ruminate.
My clothes are neatly folded in a chair. For a brief moment, I
consider putting them on and just running out of here. I don’t need a
diagnosis, right? Can’t I just be a fat, fit anomaly? Maybe I’d be okay
with that. It’d be worth it to not be so...exposed. I mean, I’ve spent my
whole life being told to cover up and that my body isn’t for me. It’s not
mine. It’s kind of...gross. I don’t know. All I know is that, right now, I
don’t think that I want to exist.
“Okay, so, after the p elvic examand the u ltrasoundand all of that, I
feel confident diagnosing you with PCOS. This is a textbook case, but
it’s definitely not the worst that I’ve seen. I’m going to prescribe you a
birth controlcalled Yaz, which should actually limitsome of your
symptoms. Otherwise, I want you to k eep doing what you’re doing.
You seem to be living a really healthy lifestyle and I’m generally
impressed. I know that this can be frustrating, and you might hear some
pretty nasty stuff, but I want you to know that you are doing all that
you can to care for yourself. Just keep doing your best and that’ll be
enough for me.” A Gynecologist. I was 18. And now I know.
Symptoms of PCOS may include infertility, weight gain and difficulty
with weight loss, irregular menstrual cycles, acne, ovarian cysts, and
pelvic pain. Yes, I know that I’m fat. No, that bottle of ibuprofen in my
bag is not secretly full of weed or whatever. I have PCOS. And, monthly
periods or not, I’m still female. I’m not lazy. I’m not a fake athlete. And
I’m not the pageant girl that my grandmother wanted. But I’m human.
And Southern expectations can shove it.