The Accidental Native

The Accidental Native is, at first glance, an obvious oxymoron. It is impossible to be an accidental native, because you are native to your place of birth.

But being a native and remaining a native are two distinct things. And so my journey begins and ends, and I am an accidental native, home again and happy to tell the story.

Upon high school graduation, I was determined to leave Charleston and never return. In the early 70s, I believed Charleston was a sleepy town with little to offer an aspiring journalist. The grass was greener in any other part of the country, and surely the temperatures were better.

Fortunately, I was also raised to believe the college years were times of exploration in many areas. Not only were you to explore academic subject matter, but you were to explore new parts of the country as well. How did you know what was out there — how did you know where you really belonged — if you never tested the waters?

Thanks to supportive parents, unafraid of multiple mortgages (I knew nothing about money, college loans, or out-of-state tuition in this days), my undergraduate and graduate years took me to UNC-Greensboro, the University of Connecticut, and the University of Missouri. My late husband’s graduate years also took us to Boston. So higher education afforded me a look at very different parts of the country.

Lo and behold, our first jobs out of school brought us back to Anderson, SC for about two years; then two years of graduate school for Tom in Boston; and then 22 years of work, life, and two children in Texas. That move still befuddles me, since we were two East Coast kids who hardly knew where Texas was on the map. Nonetheless, more years led to better jobs, bigger houses, deeper friendships, and children. Our 3-5 year planned adventure in Texas extended to 22 years.

In 2001, the opportunity presented itself to relocate to the Northeast, bringing us closer to home territory. As a family, we had 15 fabulous years in Connecticut, cut short by tragedy.

Widowed in 2013, my brother and sisters-in-law implored me to come home. Come back to Charleston, they said. Who will you call in the middle of the night when you are sick? That became a compelling argument after my first bout of severe flu and dehydration alone. “You can’t shovel sunshine,” my sister-in-law told me, time and time again, every winter.

So in 2015, I took the plunge and purchased a home in my hometown, planning to rent it out for a year and move the following year. As fate would have it, in January 2016, the stars aligned, bringing Allan into my world. That summer, he moved to Charleston with me, and we married Labor Day weekend, 2017.

So what’s it like moving back to your hometown? It’s a really big deal here.

You can live in Charleston for 50 or 60 years, but if you weren’t born here, you will forever be “from off.” So it is a great badge of honor to be able to say that you are a native.

There seem to be fewer and fewer of us here anymore. At recent synagogue and cultural events, it is hard to detect a southern accent. On the streets, nary a southern accent is to be heard.

So much has changed, as you might expect after being away for 45 years. The area of town where we live simply didn’t exist when I left. The vibrant restaurant and arts scene has exploded. And the tourism industry, once a novelty driven by the beaches, is now a 12-month business, much to the chagrin of some of the locals. There is an ongoing debate whether Charleston has lost its soul. I haven’t been here long enough (5+ years) to comment on that, but I do know the city is a lot more exciting now than it was in the early 1970s.

By any account, Charleston is a foodie’s paradise, and though real estate is red hot, the cost of living remains a fraction of what it is in other parts of the country. I put hugs and kisses on my check to the Charleston County Auditor’s Office each year when I pay my property taxes, and I can assure you I never did that in Connecticut or Texas.

It is very rare that I run into anyone from my past; I have reconnected with very few childhood friends. If they have been here through the decades, they have a full network of friends and family and are not opening their arms or networks to “newcomers.” If childhood friends are coming home again, as I did, I have a better chance of reconnecting, and that is proving true, much to my delight.

Despite that, there is a real comfort driving familiar streets and neighborhoods. Sharing with my husband what “used to be” here. Catching a memory that enters my head after 40+ years. Seeing neighborhoods that once declined now rebound. Making new friends in a town where people are just friendly.

So when someone asks me where I am from, I say with great pride that I am a native, despite my accent. It appears that my years away, particularly in the Northeast, have left me with more of that accent than a Southern accent.

Maybe I am an accidental native, brought home again by tragedy. But now I share my hometown in love. And enjoy this chapter of my life in ways I never expected.

You can go home again.