The Manson-Dixie Line

By Michelle Railey


Oh, youth, you were so cute. You were from Texas and genetically gifted. You were in my conservatory classes in New York and you were, well, vapid seems harsh and I’m going to believe you grew out of it.

You up-spoke, before up-speak was a term.

And there was a time, God love you, when you stood up in front of the entire class and blathered on about the Manson-Dixie Line, that one which divides the south from the north, that one which had its correct name in 12-point font on the paper you were holding. That one you might have actually heard of growing up in the South and all.

And your inflection and your tone went up and you were 20 and perfect. But so wrong.

Student loan dollars being what they are, I’m feeling my loans from that class were exceptionally well-spent. Oh, Manson-Dixie Line, I almost wish you existed, a magical line dividing serial killers from paper cups and/or Designing Women.

The Mason-Dixon Line is so boring by comparison.


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