Git 'Er Dun

I can change a tire, bait a fishing hook and shoot a shotgun. On any given night you can find me wearing cowboy boots and a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt. I line dance to country music. I am a redneck.

In the last blog on stereotypes I denied my redneck self. In all actuality, this is who I am. The true stereotype isn't whether or not I admit to myself that I am a redneck, but it is instead the stigma that goes along with it.

Rednecks are viewed as the dirt-covered, tattooed imbreds that eat Spam and watch NASCAR solely for the crashes. Yes, I wear cowboy hats, but I have never had a mullet. And while it's true that I bite my nails, I never bite my toenails. The rebel flag is not painted on my pick-up truck. And I love my cousins, but I don't love my cousins.

I would like to classify myself as a new breed of redneck. A "sophisticated" redneck, if you will. I may spit. I may curse. I may throw back a bottle of tequila every now and then, but I do it with style. With class.

The movie Deliverance really popularized the many misconceptions people have about rednecks. Often times they are classified as uneducated, toothless racists who enjoy plucking away at the banjo. With myself it is quite the contrary. As a double major with a complete set of teeth, I love all races, including "Yankees", one of the rednecks' most fabled enemies. And as far as the banjo is concerned, I have not yet mastered the revered chords of "Dueling Banjos".

When people ask me what bars I went to over the weekend or when I mention my upcoming Brad Paisley concert, I see a startled look jump across their faces. "You like country music?" they ask incredulously as their eyes glaze over with talk of Hank Williams, Jr. and Larry the Cable Guy. By the time I get around to telling them about the newest litter of hound dogs and the latest update on the NASCAR finals they are backing away and throwing Skoal cans at me to get me to stop talking.

Although I sometimes perpetuate the image of rednecks by hollering out "Git 'er dun" in the middle of a conversation and having friends named Cletus and Bubba, it still angers me that people stereotype me this way. Just because I enjoy drinking my Bud Light and Jose' at City Limits doesn't mean I am going to end up knocked up, wearing cut-off flannel shirts while living in a trailer park and driving a John Deere tractor to the Feed and Supply store. I have plans. And they don't include barbecued Spam at a shotgun wedding.