Rick Smith/Columnist
To foreigners, a Yankee is an American.
To Americans, a Yankee is a Northerner.
To Northerners, a Yankee is an Easterner.
To Easterners, a Yankee is a New Englander.
To New Englanders, a Yankee is a Vermonter.
And in Vermont, a Yankee is somebody who eats pie for breakfast.
Many years ago, I asked Aunt Cypsy, “What is” – I whispered – “a Yankee?”
“An unfortunate!” she replied, rearing back, chuckling, and slapping her thigh. “For many Southerners, being called a Yankee is seen as mudslinging – not a praiseworthy attribute, sugar.”
“Surfise it to say,” added Uncle Longino, “it’s nearly as high on the Richter scale as being called late for a Mexican-themed potluck.”
“A Yankee is a Northerner,” explained Aunt Cypsy, sounding a bit more serious.
“ANY Northerner,” inserted Uncle Longino.
“During the American Civil War,” continued Aunt Cypsy, “Confederate soldiers referred to Union soldiers as ‘Yankees.’ It wasn’t a way to make friends.”
I remember being told that the Yankee line of demarcation was the Mason-Dixon line, but no one in my circle could point to it on a map.
Cajuns, so it seems, have a very different opinion on this dividing line.
A group of students from Lafayette, Louisiana, spent a week with us through a student exchange program during my senior year at Minden High School. Imagine our surprise when they referred to us as Yankees. That left-handed compliment cost them a downgrade to “foreign” exchange students.
These deep south students had many reasons for coming to the harebrained conclusion that we were Yankies, but the two I most remember:
(1) Yankee territory is anything north of Interstate 10, and
(2) “Seriously! White gravy?” (We learned that brown gravy is a no-laughing matter in the kitchens of Cajun folk.)
Perhaps Texans are even more sensitive about this subject. Want to put a hitch in a Texan’s giddy-up? Call him a Yankee. I remember flying into DFW a few years ago and hearing a fellow from the panhandle get all bent out of shape because his rental car had a New Jersey license plate.
He planted his luggage bullheadedly in place, adjusted his Durango cowboy hat at the front tip, and scowled, “A Yankee license plate? Are you kidding? Find me a pickup truck.”
Some New Englanders embrace the term Yankee. Take for instance Connecticuters. “Yankee Doodle Dandy” was officially adopted as Connecticut’s state song in 1978. That’s right, the Yankee Doodle nursery rhyme is the state song of The Land of Steady Habits. But before you come down harshly on the citizens of Connecticut, remember, we all sing this ditty from time to time, if for no other reason than its upbeat and humorous tone.
So, if a New Englander – say a Vermonter – calls you a Yankee because you eat pie for breakfast, go ahead and enjoy your pie. In fact, have a second serving. And if they persist with their name calling, tell them, “Go stick a feather in your hat and call it…”
And if they say that you’re confusing them with Connecticuters, smile and say, “It’s a Yankee thing.”
Rick Smith is a Jeffersonian and can be reached at theriquemeister@gmail.com.