A Southern Girl by John Warley

lighthearted. I was not fooled, but saw no exit.
    We left the house and walked down Church Street to the Battery. “I brought this heavy sweater but I certainly won’t need it today,” Sarah said as we sought a bench in the sunlight. I just waited.
    “What I’m about to say,” Sarah began, “will sound like I’m injecting myself into your personal business; yours and Coleman’s. We’ve always tried to avoid that. I think we’ve been successful there, don’t you?” I nodded, and I meant it. “It’s hard, I don’t mind telling you. It’s hard when you see your children making mistakes you think they could avoid; making mistakes which your experience tells you they’ll regret. Still, you have to respect their right to make them, hard as it is to keep quiet. You’ll see this clearly as your boys grow up.”
    At that moment, her voice softened. Her tone turned reverential. “My parents, especially my father, were so strict with me. Why, I couldn’t even choose my clothes or hairstyle until I got to college. I rebelled, I can tell you. I fought hard against restrictions I felt were totally unreasonable, although looking back, I can see I dug in my heels on the minor issues and did what they wanted on the major ones. But they were determined to ‘bring me up southern,’ as my father termed it. For so long, I had no concept of what that meant. I mean, every girl in Darlington grew up southern as far as I could see. It was only after I was married and moved around during the war that I began to understand a bit. By then I was in my late twenties, about your age, actually.
    “The people out west and in New England, where we were stationed while Coles was teaching at OCS, were friendly, most of them, and very nice to us. But those people didn’t have the sense of identity I felt with the South. You could tell it right away. Whenever I met someone I liked, I wanted them to come to Darlington, to meet my parents and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins, to have a big Sunday dinner and cut the fool with everyone around the table. I actually invited someof them; they thought I was crazy, I’m sure, driving fifteen hundred miles to meet someone’s relatives. The point is, those people were my identity. I belonged to them and they belonged to me. Are you getting warm? I can’t believe this is December.”
    “It is heating up,” I acknowledged. As much as I wanted this conversation behind me, I knew my mother-in-law would have her say and I had resolved to hear her out. More from obligation than desire, I said, “Why don’t we sit under a tree?”
    “I was thinking of just that,” Sarah said. We crossed the park, stopping at a bench shaded by a mammoth, gnarled oak, surely old enough to have witnessed the firing on Ft. Sumter. Along the promenade railing, a couple passed a set of binoculars between them while nearby a man with a telephoto lens trained his camera on the island fortress in the harbor. Pigeons flapped about, indifferent to tourists.
    “I was talking about identity,” Sarah continued. “This child you are considering. I wonder what identity she’ll feel in a strange land surrounded by people who are so obviously different.”
    “But what is her alternative?” I resolved to be patient. “The Koreans don’t adopt girls. I would think it would be worse to be in a country where you look the same but are treated like an alien.”
    Sarah cocked her head slightly and stared ahead. “Well, I suppose you have a point. But dear, you can’t save the world. What will she do to your family’s sense of identity? You’ve your children to consider.”
    “Of course. We wouldn’t do anything that would hurt the boys.”
    “Naturally you wouldn’t, which is my point. You don’t think it will hurt. You probably think it will be an interesting experience for them. But in time you will come to see what I have seen; that family is the most important thing on earth, and bringing a