That’s the word someone used to describe me lately.
Not because I live in Georgia or because I have a drawl that people outside of our region probably have a difficult time understanding.
But I was called country because I have a love and compassion for animals, even the undomesticated kind.
I laughed it off and even though I am pretty sure the person meant it as an insult, didn’t take it that way.
My child on the other hand was not very happy when he heard the news and expressed his opinion in a way that proved he is indeed a descendant of my family tree.
Mama didn’t like the term either, but she may have been triggered by the memory of me being previously called derogatory terms by the ex-husband.
“I don’t like that you were called that,” Cole said.
I shrugged. “It was nothing.”
I had only mentioned it in conversation because it was part of the story I was relaying.
“But what did they mean by calling you that? It just seems like they were meaning something a lot worse.”
I imagine they were using the term as a softer alternative to redneck or hillbilly, the two phrases my ex-husband used to describe my family because, except for Mama, they all had blue-collar or labor jobs.
Some of my family members worked construction, or were truck drivers, and farmers. To the ex, hard-working people were rednecks.
Being called ‘country’ was meant to insult me, but it didn’t. Like Granny, I have no fancy pretenses about myself and could care less about trying to act like I am something I am not.
I am not that comfortable in a big city. Traffic gives me anxiety attacks and I don’t like being in an environment full of strangers.
So, maybe being called country is an apt description.
“I still don’t like it; it was meant to hurt your feelings,” Cole said.
I appreciated his concern and told him so, but I had to let him know there was an important lesson here.
“It didn’t hurt my feelings and I wasn’t insulted,” I began. “See, for it to hurt me, I would have to care about the opinion of the person who said it. And I didn’t. Words can only hurt us when we believe them.”
“You always tell me words matter,” Cole reminded me.
True. They do.
And in this case, the word was being used in an attempt to make someone feel bad or inferior.
We have gotten to where we use words like “country” to label people, to point out a difference and maybe separate us in the process.
Our words and language are supposed to bring us together and build us up, not try to tear us down and apart.
But it sure doesn’t feel that way lately.
It seemed like everyone was trying to get a little dig in, any way they could. We have focused on the things that keep us divided and make us scatter instead of what can unite us.
People have forgotten that no matter where we are from, and no matter the differences, we still belong to one another.
“So, you don’t care at all that person thinks you are country?”
I really don’t.
“But why doesn’t it bother you?” my child asked.
“What someone thinks about me is none of my business,” I said. “That’s their opinion of me and their opinion is not fact or my character.”
“But what if their opinion of you is wrong?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said.
That person didn’t really know me, only what they thought they knew.
“Did what they say about you make you think differently about them?” Cole asked.
“No,” I said. “I already had my opinion about them. Their comment just reinforced it.”
“What did you think of them?” he asked.
It didn’t matter. Just like they were way off base with me, my opinion was just that and I may be wrong.
“I can think of a few names I would like to call that person,” Cole admitted.
I could understand that and told him so but reminded him that just served to drag us down to their level.
Even though it may feel good, it still only served to put a bigger wedge between us.
“There’s enough name calling already,” I said. “Instead of thinking of how to hurt someone, we need to just say things that can help us find a common ground, and not declare a word war.”
So, I was called country. It was not a total lie. It wasn’t a total truth, either.
The word didn’t matter; neither did the opinion by the person who said it.
What was important, was that I was reminded of how our words can either unite us or divide, and it matters how we decide to use them.