Our theme for the month of October is “states.”
I like to think that people can’t tell I’m from South Carolina. After all, a Lee in the South is more likely to be connected to the Confederate general than to Korea. And I was raised, not born, in South Carolina—my family moved from Boston to Charleston when I was five years old. My parents hadn’t ventured much below the Mason-Dixon line, but in South Carolina in 2006 they saw research funding, cheaper real estate, and family time that wasn’t spent inching through traffic to and from daycare. They bought a new Toyota minivan, and southward we went.
We arrived in Charleston after dark on the fourth of July. The cashier at a convenience store gave chocolates to my sibling and me; our parents said it was too late to eat them but soon relented as the steamy summer night melted our Hershey’s into barely contained blobs. I remember watching fireworks from the hotel room window, slurping chocolate off the foil wrapper, while my parents bemoaned the quality of the local Chinese takeout.
Thus began my life as an almost-Southerner. I shed my budding Boston accent and Red Sox obsession and picked up “y’all” and “yes ma’am.” I kept mental notes on who was a USC fan (University of South Carolina, not United States Chicken), and who supported Clemson, USC’s mortal enemy, in football—the sport that mattered most of all. I bade farewell to clam chowder from Au Bon Pain and discovered pulled pork and steak fries from Melvin’s BBQ. I traded chasing pigeons for spotting gator snouts in ponds. I donned the first of many pairs of Crocs.
I learned to survive the hot, impossibly humid Lowcountry summers—first, by going outside as little as possible; then, by developing my tolerance for sweaty clothes. And as I got older, Charleston developed my tolerance for other things, too. I understood that some classmates would vehemently reject political correctness in all its forms. I subconsciously accepted congregations and schools that seemed (never explicitly) grouped by race or economic status. I accepted the pursuit of “the good life” as a meaningful purpose, one boating day or cute restaurant after another. I sailed happily through the Holy City’s beauty, while believing that its history was unimportant.
South Carolina is steeped in history—the interesting, and the discomforting. Living in Grand Rapids, it’s easy to forget that slavery happened in America. But Charleston was one of the major port cities in the transatlantic slave trade. It took the cultural reckoning of 2020 for me to consider what this meant—to imagine the thousands of people, shackled, disembarking right where the aquarium of my childhood now stands. To think about what it’d feel like to be sold, my freedom taken away, just so some landowner could make more money.
Some people don’t like talking about this. They say it’s not their problem, that slavery and racism aren’t issues anymore. Our current president, even, wants to remove any historical signs that “reflect negatively” on our country.
But I don’t think that level of tragedy just dissipates. I don’t think that ignoring our past mistakes is wise. I’ve had to remind myself that even when history makes me uncomfortable, it’s important to face that feeling head-on. To understand why it bothers me, and to learn from that. To remember that humility and grace are possible, and healing for future generations is worth it.
Now, I’ll be honest and remind you that I’m not a true Southerner. I’m back to my parents’ Northern roots for now—shoveling snow, gaining weight, and showing other signs of madness. But at the core of these complex feelings I’ve shared is much love for my home state. While I breathe, I hope for South Carolina and its people to live well.
Eleanor Lee (‘23) graduated from Calvin with degrees in computer science and writing. She grew up in South Carolina but currently lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She loves coffee, laughing, and bringing emojis to the workplace.
