Granny

Growing up in the South is hard to explain. It’s a little different from growing up anywhere else -- especially for a girl.

Prim and proper in patent leather Mary Jane’s with frilly socks and a smock dress. According to some, that is how a young girl living in the South should always be. That is my childhood. I grew up on the outskirts of Charleston with parents who could not have cared less about fitting with the social norms of a southern life. They were borderline hippies unconcerned with my wardrobe or my social etiquette. Luckily for me, my grandmother lived next door.

Barbara, or “Barbie” as we affectionately called her, was born and raised in the South. She was an active member of the church, and even had a building there named for her family. She was your stereotypical southern matriarch, the head of the Vaughn family to say the least. She was a master in the kitchen where butter was a staple. Her cornbread, cheese grits, fried pork chops, and monkey bread were all to die for.  It didn’t get much better than having her for a next door neighbor.

Since the day I was born Granny was there -- right there -- to make sure I had everything I needed, and by everything I needed I mean everything she thought I needed. Of course I did not need a different dress to wear to Sunday school each week, but that is what Granny thought was right. That is was what I had. I could always count on her for anything I needed. She was the best thing that could have happened to my childhood.

I guess you could say she raised me right, and morphed me into a vision of a perfect little lady. She taught me so many things that are still with me today. I learned to keep my presence, to sit like a lady, to cross my legs at my ankles, and to fold my hands in my lap. My only regret is not picking up any of those cooking skills.

She was my best friend. We did everything together. I was her mini-me, and she was my idol. Granny passed away when I was in the eighth grade, and I was crushed. It took a whole week off school, and it took me months to get back to normal. She did nothing less than make me into the southern lady I am today. I will never forget the legend that was my grandmother, and when I go back to her home church I consider it a privilege when the old ladies refer to me as “Little Barbara.”

Yo, Please Pull Up Your Pants

        This is for all of the College of Charleston students who obviously do not have someone to  approve their outfits in the morning. Please pull up your pants. I don’t care to see the skateboards on your boxers today, and I certainly do not care to see your crack. I can not count how many times I have wanted to say something to boys rocking this look. It is time they know the truth. They look like idiots. The attire some of the young men on this campus choose to wear from day to day baffles me. Sideways hats, t-shirts with marijuana leaves on them, and pants “busting a sag” are not things I find attractive. 


I have so many questions for these young men who better deserve to be called boys. I want to know who taught them to dress this way. I think it is logical to assume that it probably was not their mothers. Better question yet, who funded these wardrobe options? I bet this was not their mothers either, but if they bought them on their own doesn’t that mean they must have had something better to wear to the interview? We can only hope. 


One would assume that you boys are on the College of Charleston campus because you go to school here, and that you are an intelligent human being who got this far and now is eager to receive a higher education. Do you plan on wearing these same outfits post graduation? If so, I don’t see a CEO position heading your way anytime soon. Do you hope to find a wife and start a family with her someday? This is another reason you might need to go shopping. I can guarantee you no employer or woman will see your baggy pants and think this guy is the one I’ve been looking for.


We go to college to mature and to find ourselves. If shirts with marijuana leaves on them are all you have found thus far, I recommend you keep looking. I am not demanding you dress up if shirt and tie everyday for class. I just ask that you present yourself in a way that is suitable for an intelligent College of Charleston student. Impress your professor and the ladies in class by throwing on a shirt without “I’m a pothead” written all over it, and you may find them beginning to respect you a little more. So I will ask you one more time -- please, pull up your pants. 





        

Bike Lanes Necessary

     Living in Charleston comes with its ups and downs. It is a beautiful place with some of the nation's most beautiful people, but even beautiful people do annoying things – a lot of annoying things. The list is extensive, but ask me to pick one thing about living here that bothers me the more than anything, and I could do it without much hesitation. One word comes to mind – bicyclists.

     The worst part is that that are everywhere. I consider myself lucky that I haven't accidentally run one over yet, and I know I can't be the only one who is bothered by them on a daily basis. There is just so much to be annoyed by. It is better for the environment than driving a gas-guzzling SUV to and from class, and therefore it is indeed a good idea, but people around this town have got to get their bicycling habits in order. The things they do perturb me just as much, if not even more than, the things they don't do.

     They think that they own the streets, and frankly they don't. They have just as much right to the streets as, believe it or not, actual cars do. That's right no more and no less. What is even worse than when they think they own the streets is when they think they own the sidewalks too. Sidewalks are called sidewalks for a reason. They were meant for walking not riding.

     There are laws, and they have to follow them. Bored cops are on the prowl for Charlestonians breaking traffic laws all over the peninsula, and they are even starting to write tickets to perpetrators on bicycle. I don't feel bad about it either. They deserve what they get. Before you pick up a bike and decide to ride it all over a busy city you should educate yourself. Maybe then you would know that bike riders must adhere to the same rules as car drivers. I know it is astonishing, but just because your mode of transportation has only two wheels and lacks a motor you are not considered above the law. When traffic gets backed up you are not allowed to bob and weave through vehicles, and you certainly are not allowed to hop on the sidewalk to avoid the chaos all together.

     Life in Charleston would be much more peaceful without them.Drivers wouldn't feel anxiety about beach cruisers popping out of no where. Pedestrians could walk without having to share their sidewalks with anyone other than those who are actually walking, and the members of my bicyclist haters club would have one less thing to be annoyed about. Hey, a girl can dream can't she?

What the heck am I going to do with my life?

     Five weeks. I have five weeks to figure out what I am going to do with my life. In five weeks, I will be an alumni of The College of Charleston, and as of now I have no idea what I want to do post-grad. I have had a few different career aspirations over the years, but I am still confused. 

     In high school I loved to write. My English teacher junior year set my passion for writing on fire. She told me I was good at it. I immediately knew I was going to be a journalist. I had never had a talent before. I have no athletic capability. I can't sing. I don't play an instrument; although, I forced my father to be me a guitar when i was 10-years-old. I took two lessons before I decided the instructor creeped me out. I am not artistic. I am definitely not the brightest crayon in the box, and  to my misfortune, I am also not a model. I was ecstatic to finally be good at something. As high school progressed, my love for journalism morphed into a love for broadcast journalism. I became infatuated with Oprah and Katie Couric, and I knew that one day I would be just like them. I watched the Today Show, and Oprah religiously. 

     When I enrolled at the college I was eager to let everyone know my plans for the future, and I immediately declared my major in communication media studies. Then I got discouraged. Everyone who I told about my dream to be an anchor shot me down. I persevered for a semester or so, and then gave up and changed my major -- to early childhood education. That lasted for half a semester, and I switched back to communication. This time I decided to focus on broadcast, and most of my electives were focused on television. That is until my last semester. My last semester ever. 

     I needed one more communication elective to graduate. It had to be a writing class. Hmm...I think I used to like to write. I had forgotten. My freshman year I decided that I was no  longer good at writing. My English classes discouraged me by handing me C after C on literary essays, and I had come to accept that my high school teacher must have been wrong about me. I was not a good writer. I decided my final semester was just as good of a time as any to find out the truth for myself, and I signed up for opinion writing. 

     The class is taught by a local newspaper writer who knows his shit. This was obvious to me right away. I received my first assignment back with the grade of a 95. There are three weeks of classes left. I have gotten high A's on almost every assignment in the class, and once again, I have fallen deeply in love with writing, and I have no idea what to do with my life. 

     The plan is to find a job and start freelancing. Fingers crossed, I will get a few things published, and I will be able to build up my resume. Ideally, I would like to have my own column. I would really like to have an assignment editor say "Shannon, I trust you. You are good at what you do. Write about whatever you want, and it will be published." Then I could rant and rave about all of things that annoy me most, and I would get paid at the same time. Dream Job. But for the meantime, I will blog. I plan on posting all the things I have written all of the things I will write. Maybe someone will stumble upon this place and fall in love with my writing while I am trying to figure out to do with myself. That sure would be nice.