(“Say wha? Yo mean a po’boy?” )

Not all my students are middle-aged ladies married to doctors and with fancy horses and too much time on their hands. One is named Jitka—an émigré from the Czech Republic twenty-some years ago, a former exercise rider there and occasional jockey, and now a US citizen. During breaks in a lesson we were talking about how the American television shows she’d seen in Prague had colored her expectation of what living in The States would be like. She assumed, for instance, that every bar (saloon) in her new country would have those knee-to-chest swinging doors that cowboys always push through (or are thrown out through). She’s been disappointed, she reports, that in 20 years she’s never seen a single bar with doors like those!

At her last lesson Jitka recounted her previous weekend’s adventure—Jakob, her husband, had felt compelled to expose her to another bit of Americana, her first gun show. Among her sightings: a giant guy (or girl) with the long hair and a leopard coat buying a rifle, strapping it over his(her) shoulder and chortling to him(her)self as he(she) danced away. . . . a hunched-over Men in Black-looking guy wearing a fedora and a black overcoat, being followed around by a 300 pound body guard/Man Friday sporting a classic shaved bullet head. A typical Saturday in north Florida.

I know I just would not fit in. They’d look at me and how I dress and know I am and imposter. Before I buy clothes, I study what other people wear, but I always end up looking like a very old preppie. Maybe it’s the button down Oxford cloth shirts? The crewneck sweaters? The deck shoes? Try as I might, if I dressed for a NASCAR race, I still end up looking like I used to when I went to visit my mother-in-law (God rest her soul).

Since moving here back in 1990, I’ve always tried to fit in—to no avail. I went into a convenience store to grab some lunch one day, pointed through the glass, and said to the guy behind the deli counter, “May I have one of those poorboy, please?” Cocking his head, he replied, “Say wha? Yo mean a po’boy?” Yes, I guess I did.

Another time, with suburban Liberals visiting from up north, we tried to impress them with a taste of Southern culture. Canoeing down a spring-fed stream through the National Forest, a trip to the rodeo, and the piece de resistance, an evening at the stock car races. Even there our status as outlanders was soon discovered as Susan was observed stuffing the “bald” (boiled) peanuts into her ears to dampen out the engines’ roar.

Meanwhile back at the gun show, Jitka was being shown a selection of ornate, bejeweled purses in which a lady could carry her concealed weapon.

How does that work? You are being accosted on a dark street by some thug, and as you fumble through your purse, you’re apologizing, “Now just a minute, wait, wait, I’ve got it here someplace. . . .”

Clearly an issue that would affect some chick with a Beretta, but with my samurai sword, all I have to worry about are those persistent nicks around my ankles.