It’s about time.  Governor Jeb Bush has ordered the permanent removal of the confederate flag from our capital building in Tallahassee.  Actually, the flag was not flying over the capital.  It was merely part of a display depicting flags of the various countries with whom Florida has been aligned, including France, Spain and yes—the Southern Cross battle flag of the Confederate States of America.

     Problem is, the confederate flag is seen by Yankees and certain (but definitely not all) hyphenated persons as a symbol of racism and of a time when certain hyphenated persons were held in slavery by certain other hyphenetically challenged persons.  This is not just a problem here in Florida. South Carolina, Mississippi and Alabama have been under siege by the Yankees for years.  Georgia too has had its problem with that flag.  After a battle that lasted more than twice as long as that war, you know the one, Georgians finally threw up their hands and surrendered the flag.

     It’s rather like the song Dixie, I suppose.  Just another symbol of racial insensitivity.  Why the word itself—Dixie—is offensive to many. 

     Since I spend most of my waking hours attempting to avoid offending anyone, and trying to understand everyone, like perverts, liberals and other malcontents who “feel” but refuse to think, I have decided to examine their claims.  First of all, the word, you know the one, (see how sensitive I’ve become already) is derived from the French word DIX which means ten. 

     Way back yonder (see . . . I didn’t say exactly when), banks located in the Gulf Coast states dealt with a significant number of French speaking people.  Such persons who grew a certain type of plant which produced a white fluffy fibrous product from which cloth is derived (I hope you noticed that I didn’t write the name of the racist plant life) would sell their white fluffy fibrous plant product to merchants who would ship the white fluffy fibrous plant product from the port at New Orleans.  The Central Bank printed its ten dollar notes with the word Ten on them as well as the French word “DIX”.  Riverboats spread these “dixes” up and down the Mississippi—even into northern-person land where they began to refer to a certain region of the country as DIX_ _ _ land (see, I’m still being sensitive). 

     In 1859, a certain Northern person, Daniel Emmett wrote the song—well, you know the one.  At least he said he wrote it.  Two hyphenated-American persons claimed that they taught Emmett the song and he just claimed it as his own.  Why two hyphenated-American persons now living among Northern persons would wish to be in the land of white fluffy fibrous plant products is beyond me, but I figure that after spending a few years living among a bunch of damn-screaming Yankees—anything—even picking white fluffy fibrous plant product would be preferable.

      The song was a tremendous hit all over America wherever it was played.

      So why do liberal northern persons and those enslaved to follow them now hate that word and that song.

     “It was played at the inauguration of Jefferson Davis as President of the Confederacy!” responded one.

     “Yes indeed, and it was also a favorite of Abraham Lincoln, who had it played at the White House,” I replied.

     “But it’s racist!”

     “What part?  Which words?”

     “Well, it’s just racist.”

     “What part?  Which words?”

     “The whole thing, just by singing it.”

     “Are you serious?” I ask.

     “Ok, look . . . the song is not really racist, but since it is perceived to be racist, it offends people and perception is really reality anyway,” he responds.

     That is typical liberal—idiot hog-wash.

     “Perception is reality?” 

     David Copperfield would love you people.

     So what is the truth?  Liberal Northern Yankee-persons simply despise anything and everything that recognizes any redeeming social value in the South, at least that which was not forcibly imposed upon us by Northern Yankee persons.  In other words—the South must be viewed as inherently evil and but for the influence of Northern Yankee persons we wouldn’t have indoor plumbing.

     We have spent so much time and effort trying to be neighborly to northern Yankee-persons that they now feel compelled to tell us how it was done in Cleveland or Buffalo or wherever.  Don’t they know?  We don’t care!

     So the flag is gone, the word is offensive, and the song is banned.  Perhaps we can destroy all evidence that there ever was a Confederate States of America, or at least that any of our states actually had anything to do with it.  Maybe we could start by calling a co-cola, “pop”, trade in our grits for bean sprouts, start making fat-free barbeque out of tofu and wear Bermuda shorts pulled up to our chest with sandals and over the calf stretch black socks.

     We would, of course, have to stop using the word “fixing” other than in the repair sense of the word.

     We would have to give up college football and start playing lacrosse, rugby, backgammon or some other sissy northern game.

     Country music would be banned and we would all have to listen to polkas and our children would listen to rap music praising the killing of innocent people, which would be much more easily accomplished since personal ownership of guns would be gauche.

     There would be no more dinners on the grounds, gospel sings or baptisms in a creek.  No speckled pups.  No sweet iced tea or rocking the sun down from your porch.  No more fried chicken.  No all-you-can-eat catfish or biscuits with gravy.  It would now be brie on wheat crackers and tongue on pumpernickel.

     No longer will we name our children Jimmy Earl or Jo Beth or Ruby Ann.  They will now be Biff or Chaz or Summer or Jasmine.

     Here in Florida we will have to change the names of Lee and Dixie counties and every Jeff Davis County from Georgia to Texas will just have to go.

     Mark Twain said that we Southerners sing when we speak, but not anymore.  Now, we must learn to talk at the decibel level of an F-16 preparing (see, I didn’t say fixing) to take off, and be rude and obnoxious to everyone we encounter.    

     Don’t you think we will all be a lot happier then?  Well?

     Not me!  Let my feet and my heart and my soul forever be planted in a land where “gimme some sugar” ain’t got nothing to do with Dixie Crystal.  Where neighbor consoles neighbor with a bowl of potato salad.  Where old dogs and old men sit in the shade of a big oak and bream-fish from a pond.  Where old women show their grand-daughters how to knead dough for homemade cat-head biscuits while chickens scratch around in the yard. 

     Where little boys play baseball in a cow pasture and grow up loving America and flying the Stars and Stripes with pride, and, if they want to—wave the Southern Cross at a college football game or a stock car race, ‘cause it ain’t nobody else’s business.  And if they want to sing Dixie, let them learn to sing it with the love and emotion of Ray Charles.  Ray Charles is from Georgia, and nobody, I mean nobody can sing Dixie like Ray Charles.

     You see, “Southern” ain’t about the color of your skin.  Southern is about the condition of your heart.

      So, what do we Southerners (black, white or whatever) tell the Yankees?  I like what ol’ Lewis used to say . . . “Delta is ready when you are!”

Ken Revell is a syndicated columnist.