Southern Gothic

I love the American South. When I moved there at 19 it was like moving to a different country, where literally everything was Topsy-turvy. But what does anyone know when they are 19? I married a Southerner and periodically we travel there for family functions, as we did this past weekend.
I am not as pliant as I used to be, nor do I have such a deep well of energy and wonder. I prefer to be by myself. All of these conditions conspire against me during the Southerner Extravaganzas that are the birthday parties, national holidays, or the just-fors. Inevitably I depart from home questioning this foreign culture. For instance: why are women and men and children so separated? Why must we always, always eat and drink richly? Why does no one go outside? How is it that only white people attend the functions while only black people serve them? Why must women be painted and trussed while men are, well, not? Curious and curiouser.
The southern Bourgeoisie are the opposite of myself and the knowledge stings. I am a loner, an intellectual, a feminist, an atheist, a proletariat, as well as being of Mediterranean/Midwestern stock; I am very much of an iconoclast amongst the iconodules. It makes for awkward conversation around the feta dip. But all things come to an end, and I am safely ensconced once more in the heavenly bosom of Oklahoma. This is a place where I possess all of those nettling virtues but the culture sees me as a rare, exotic bird, not as Mikey's Stupefying Consort.