The Truth About Belonging

 

We say we love truth tellers. We don't. Not really.

We love the movie version — the whistleblower who wins in the end, vindicated, applauded, everyone suddenly pretending they were on her side all along. But the real truth tellers? The ones who spoke up and lost friends, lost jobs, lost their place at the table? We look away. Not because we don’t believe them, but because the media or the people who are “in charge” do not want the real truth out there. The truth tellers are painted as difficult. A little crazy. A tinge unhinged.  

I know this story. I've been living it since I was a freshman in a very small Midwestern Catholic school. My best friend was having an affair with a teacher — a married man with children, a family friend of their family. When her parents found the letters, they came to me. They already knew. They just needed me to say it out loud. So I did. They cried. I cried. 

Mr. Zick was made to resign. Quietly. He moved not too far away and became a basketball coach and teacher at another school. No charges. No consequences. Just a fresh start down the road. I told the truth and the whole institution turned on me. Not so much my best friend, because she did not squeal on him, I did. Students were mad at me. The gym teacher/football coach was mad at me, and even called me into his office to tell me that she wasn’t his first affair and named girls I knew who had graduated. 

The lesson was clear: belonging has a price, and the price is silence. 

And here's the thing…I want to belong. Most of us do. Belonging isn't weakness. It's human. It's wired into us from the days when being cast out of the tribe meant you didn't survive. We want to be liked. We want to fit in. We want someone to save us a seat.

But what happens when fitting in means shutting up? When belonging has a price tag and the price is your silence?

I've wrestled with that my whole life. The truth-teller part of me — the part I think I was just born with — keeps opening my mouth. And the belonging part of me tells me to be silent. 

Up North — and I say this having lived in Bucks County, Pennsylvania since the 1900’s (haha, late 1900’s) — people want to figure you out immediately. What's your politics? What's your stance? Which team are you on? They sniff around for your tribal affiliation before they decide whether to let you in. It's exhausting. It's cold. If you don’t check this box, and this box, and the people claiming to be the most tolerant were the least.

Then I came on this seeking Southern Charm book tour. 

Down here, something different happens. People have manners. They take pride in themselves — not in a fussy way, but in a "I'm going to change out of my pajamas into real clothes before I  leave the house" way. They look you in the eye. They smile. They say hello. They ask how you’re day is going, and they wait for an answer. 

And they don't lead with politics. They don't open with ideology. The old adage still holds in the places

I've visited — you don't talk politics, sex, or religion at the dinner table. Not because people don't have opinions. Because hospitality comes first. Because making someone feel welcome matters more than winning an argument.

Sure, they might ask what church you go to. But as it was explained to me by a gentleman in the Book Cellar in Fairhope (which is a little bar attached to the Page and Palette bookstore) it's not about judging you. It's about making you comfortable. It's about saying, "If church is your thing, here's a good one nearby. We want you to feel at home."

And if you say your church is the moon and the stars, the Pelicans and the sea or if you say you're still figuring it out? They don't flinch. They don't recoil. They open their arms anyway.

That's the difference. That's what my life in Pennsylvania didn't give me and one month in visiting the South did. 

On history tours in Charleston and Beaufort, I was reminded of the history I’d learned but have forgotten…especially in the divisiveness of modern day; the Founders who signed the Declaration of Independence— they lost everything. Their wealth. Their friends. Their safety. They weren't celebrated. They were called traitors. And they signed anyway.

Aristotle said virtue isn't a single brave moment. It's a habit. A lifelong practice. It's never easy. No journey worth taking ever is.

But here's what I'm learning, slowly, in the southern heat and humidity and beauty of Fairhope, Alabama; maybe you don't have to choose between telling the truth and belonging. Maybe you just haven't found your people yet. Maybe they're down here, on a porch somewhere, saving you a seat. Not asking you to be quiet. Not demanding you pick a team. Just glad you showed up.

I'm still on the road. Still telling the truth. Still figuring out where I belong. But for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I have to apologize for either one.

Yours from the front porch,  

Birdie Jane Lane

An Invitation From A Stranger In A Bookstore

I landed in Fairhope on Monday, July 20th. On Tuesday morning, A sweet 94 year old woman invited me to her cottage and insist I put her address in my phone. She watched over my shoulder to make sure I typed in the address correctly. 

We were standing in Page and Palette book store – and this bookstore is what made me travel all the way from the Pennsylvania to this small town called Fairhope. The bookstore is what first interested me, as I planned my Seeking Southern Charm book tour. And is there any place more Southern than Alabama? (I’m asking this as a Midwestern/Yankee – because it just seems like Alabama is as Southern as it gets). Fairhope is somewhat of a creatives haven (I’d read), and Alfred from the bookstore told me that there are more writers in the town of Fairhope than there are books!

Anyway, let me back up a moment. 

When I got to Fairhope, I was really down. I was a bit exhausted. I was doubting the decision to take the trip. And I was so far from home. And Tropical Storm Bertha was headed our way. 

Perhaps I should just leave early, I had thought. I was doing so much sightseeing on this trip that by the time I returned to my various Airbnb’s along the way, I was hot, sweaty, exhausted, and in no mind to write. That made me wonder, also, am I even a writer if I’m literally on this trip to write and my mind puts up detour signs and road blocks and begs me to rest? 

And that was my mind frame that Tuesday morning, July 21. I’d sat on the small beach of the bay and talked to my daughter and questioned everything and she said firmly: give it time! Slow your brain. Just enjoy it! Stop always trying to have the next steps mapped out!

I felt a bit better after our conversation and left the bay to go to Page and Palette bookstore. 

I was so excited. Some people get excited over war monuments, or beach towns (I do love a beach town, not gonna lie) but I get excited over awesome bookstores! This bookstore has a bar, a coffee shop, a stage for music/readings, and…plot twist…a Yoga studio upstairs! I mean, c’mon, amazing! E. Shavers in Savannah (both locations) and Page and Palette are the most interesting bookstores I’ve been in my whole entire life (and y’all, I love a bookstore). 

So I walk into the café section, accidentally cut in line in front of a young gentleman (he was sitting in a chair and I just thought he was waiting for his friend who was ordering). But when he stood up behind me, I realized my error. I apologized profusely (damn Yankee!) but he was gracious and when I stepped behind him, he insisted I go first. Southern Charm, y’all!!!!!  

I take my drink (Diet Coke with lemon, boring yes, but crispy and refreshing!), and as I turn around, I see 2 ladies sitting under a large cut out frame that says “Advice, 5 cents!” 

Remember Charlie Brown? Remember how Lucy used to have an advice booth? It was just like that, only these ladies were much kinder than Lucy ever was. 

I almost didn’t stop. 

But I knew I had to.

After all, they were offering advice and I sure could use some. 

It was like a tarot reading (did one of those in Savannah at the Farmer’s Market!) but instead of using Tarot cards, they were using cards called “The Virtue Project.” Which is incredible because virtue (real virtue, not performative virtue) was a thread throughout Sorry Bob! 

The older woman behind the booth introduced herself as Sonya and the woman sitting next to her, Lila. 

Sonya  asked me to think of a question or problem and pull a card. 

I pulled the Flexibility card. Which advised me to remain open, adapt when needed, find creative ways to solve problems, and accept the things I can’t change. 

It was…kismet, serendipity, a sign from the universe. Breathe. You got this. And one thing I have done really well all my life is to seek creative solutions. I needed this reminder. 

After my reading, the ladies started chatting with me and I told them I was an author. Lila perked up and formerly introduced herself to me as Lila Marie Pennington Ryals. She was 94 and told me she’d written a book about her life called “What Would Mamma Do?” Her mom died when she was 9 and her and her younger brother, Buddy, were left on their own. The people she thought she could trust ended up betraying them and the man that helped them the most, well, he ended up being a German Spy! 

Unfortunately, the bookstore had run out of copies, but she had some at her home and insisted I stop by her cottage where I could buy a book and have a chitchat. Lila had more mental clarity than I had on a good day!

She said, “Put my address in your phone! I’ll watch to make sure you get it right!” And so she watched as I typed in her address. 

“When should I stop by?” 

“Well, I’m on my porch every morning at 5 drinking my coffee,” she said. 

It was only my second day in Alabama, and I had been invited to a sweet strangers house! It felt surreal, as if I was on a tv show and someone was going to jump out and prank me. But it was no prank. It was just Fairhope, Alabama! 

I promised her I would stop by, just not sure when. 

Tropical Storm Bertha was on the way. I’d never been in the South during a Tropical Storm, so I didn’t know what to expect. 

The next morning was gray and the clouds were angry and swollen. I felt time was of the essence. Lila is 94. So I got dressed and made my way into town. What I didn’t expect was that some roads were flooding! Outside of town they were fine. I noticed a few creeks had crested and were now seeping into grassland. I turned around twice. “Turn Around, Don’t Drown!” played over and over in my head. But I also had a voice telling me, “If you don’t do it now, you might never get this opportunity again.”

So, the third and final time, I turned around and headed back to town. 

There was a dump truck in front of me and the going was slow. 

 As I approached the bay beach (there is a name for this and I’ll have to look it up, but for now, it’s the bay beach past the Grand Hotel and before downtown of Historic Fairhope) I noticed big yellow excavators on the sand positioned like soldiers. Then the dump truck turned into the beach and I realized it was loaded with sand! 

Ugh. Maybe this storm was going to be more than what it seemed? Maybe this is normal? It was odd because you could be standing 15 minutes outside of town and the sky was blue with dainty white clouds and then you drive into town – into an ominous sky that’s got its arms crossed and giving everyone the side-eye. 

But still, I kept going. According to google maps, I was only 7 minutes away!

Lila’s house was just as she described and while she wasn’t sipping on coffee on her front porch, she remembered me and welcomed me warmly into her home. 

We talked about her growing up, she told me stories about what happened to her that were  not in the book. She was lovely. Energetic and warm. (94!!!)

I bought her book. She also gave me a small stack of bookmarks to hand out (I have been, Lila!). 

As I left her cottage, I was amazed that she had such trust in a stranger. She obviously did not watch Dateline in her spare-time like I did. Because, I’m ashamed to admit, I have watched so many crime dramas, read so many crime books, I wondered, “What if this is all a set up? What if I end up in pieces in the bay and the excavators cover up any traces of me that might wash ashore?” This is just the way my mind works. Always looking for a story. An imagination that never stops. I could turn the most boring encounter in a store into something wild in my mind. I think that’s the curse of being a writer. At least, I hope it is…

I left her cottage, excited to read her book. Happy I’d forged ahead despite my misgivings about the weather and my possible murder and felt blessed and grateful. It was such a turnaround from my doubt and fear and moments of panic that I’d had the day before. 

I haven't finished her book yet. But I've read enough to know this: when Lila's mother died and the world turned its back on two children, she learned something most of us spend decades avoiding — that trust is a gamble worth taking. She bet on me, a Yankee with a Diet Coke and a head full of crime dramas. The least I can do is tell you about her. So here's the link for What Would Mamma Do. Buy the book! And if you're ever in Fairhope on a Tuesday morning, stop by the Advice Booth at Page and Palette and if you’re lucky, you might get an invitation from a local Legend!