Whatever Happened to Heyhowyadoin'?

It is not easy to become a Southerner. 

As someone who first came to these parts over a quarter of a century ago, I remember how alien I felt among this unfamiliar landscape, the customs and language so different from where I hailed, the humidity and bug situation totally unreasonable. 

With determination and perspicacity, however, I learned to adapt to the elements and find acceptance among my adopted people, making my way like a blind hedgehog welcomed in by a clan of kindly possums.

I was fortunate to have patient mentors who emulated slow Southern style and gimlet-eyed sensibility, showing me how to crack an oyster without breaking a fingernail and quietly reminding that you catch more gnats with honey than vinegar, dahlin.’ 

I’d like to think I’ve paid my dues in fire ant bites and brown liquor, though I’m quite positive I still elicit plenty of “bless her heart” moments among those whose blood runs blue. That’s fine, honey; my people’s definition of Southern encompasses more than chicken fingers and Lost Cause mythology, cleaving to the inclusive doctrines of the Bitter Southerner and heaping up our plates with multi-cultural representation and progressive policies. 

Of course, it’s possible to live here for decades and never become Southern. After all, there’s no formal conversion process. Though there may be a bit of hazing involving ghost pepper hot sauce and boiled peanuts. Also if you haven’t witnessed a fight at Waffle House at 2 in the morning, are you even on this side of the Mason-Dixon? 

Becoming Southern is a choice, and given the problematic history and ongoing systemic issues, it’s not one every transplant chooses to make. Many folks move here and enjoy residing amongst the lovely live oaks of gentrifying neighborhoods without getting involved in the sweaty mess of their neighbors, which in some cases is probably wise. But they’re missing out on the charms and truth of what it means to live in community.

Some complain that they try but they’ll never feel truly Southern, no matter how much Flannery they read or how tasty their potato salad (pro tip: It needs more pickles.) But after years of examining what it takes to belong to this swampy Shangri-la, I believe it can be distilled down to one single, simple practice: 

When we’re out and about, and we encounter another person or group of persons walking towards us, we look them in the eye, give a quick nod, and say, “Hey, how y’all doin’?” 

If they are also Southern, regardless of their age or gender or ethnicity or countenance, they will murmur heyhowyadoin right back, and in the flash of time-space it takes to pass each other, we will have participated in a short but meaningful ritual on which the foundation of our regional civil society is based. 

The exchange isn’t about starting a conversation—in most cases, it is decidedly not. It’s not even necessarily about nice manners. It’s just a clear, egalitarian acknowledgment of one human being to another, a way to make ourselves known while recognizing that we share the world with others.       

Basically, heyhowyadoin is the Southern version of namaste.

There’s an older gentleman who passes by my house riding a bicycle twice a day, morning and evening. I assume he is riding to and from work; I wouldn’t know because in the 15 years we’ve shared our regular short greetings I’ve never found out. The one time I flagged him down to introduce myself he seemed so uncomfortable that I let him continue his commute without asking. I realized heyhowyadoin can also be a boundary, one that allows recognition while maintaining distance. The tight circle of the exchange is a request for respect, a way to convey we mean each other no harm, but we’re not going to be best friends, OK? Totally OK, and my gent and I still nod at each other almost every day. Sometimes he even smiles. 

It is also a useful tool to determine whether someone is a friend or foe. In the case of the latter, it can serve as a warning when voiced in a certain tone. A few months ago, I was walking the half mile home at night after some drinks at Lone Wolf with friends when two men came out from the lane ahead of me, hoodies drawn. I ducked down a side street to avoid them, and my heart started to pound when I saw out of the corner of my eye that they had doubled back and appeared to be following me. 

I’m still not sure why I did what I next, but I spun around and started power walking straight towards them, then practically shouted heyhowy’alldoin! into their hidden faces. They didn’t seem to expect this at all; the taller one’s eyes flickered in confusion within the oval of his cinched hood as I sped past them back to Habersham. When I looked back they had resumed their original course, and I ran the last few blocks home.

Maybe I avoided a dangerous situation or maybe they’d just forgotten something, but by employing the salutation in this situation I had let them know that I had clocked their presence and was potentially crazy, and also loud. (As much as I discount unreasonable fears about Savannah crime in my relatively safe neighborhood, this incident shook me big. I now Uber or drag my husband out of bed for a ride when coming home alone at night.) 

Mostly, heyhowyadoin happens during a million mundane instances: Walking the dogs, pushing a buggy through the grocery store parking lot, waiting at the chiropractor’s office.    

But lately I’ve noticed its use on the decline. So often these days I raise my eyes and utter the universal Southern greeting, only to see the person staring straight ahead, unaware—or unwilling—to return the boomerang. Sometimes they look alarmed, as if I have demanded their underpants or am trying to sell them a car warranty. Perhaps they’re listening to their podcast above recommended levels, or maybe they’re still new here and don’t know about it, since in other places it is not customary to greet everyone you see. (For instance in New York City, people spend their days crammed into subway cars actively trying not to make eye contact, lest someone actually demand their underpants.) 

The loss of this small act feels like a shame at best, and emblematic of the unraveling of civil society at worst. In David Brooks’ recent essay for The Atlantic, “How America Got Mean,” he laments the deterioration of our institutional capacity to impart a shared moral code, to give “people the skills and habits that will help them be considerate to others in the complex situations of life.” The foundation of a successful future for our country, Brooks argues—and the answer to our society’s woes of loneliness, depression, and anxiety—is to “make other people feel included, seen, and respected.” 

Heyhowyadoin does just that without making a fuss. I’ll admit I’ve gotten kind of aggressive about it, hollering it to the lady with the twin pit bulls at Nathaniel Greene Park who pretends not to see me several times a week. If Publix is particularly busy, it can take me ten minutes just to get to my car as I nod at folks swinging their reusable bags. I guess I’m making it my business not to let heyhowyadoin slip away like so many other things that have made living in Savannah so special. 

Say what y’all want about the South, but it might just hold the key with heyhowyadoin. If the rest of America became more Southern in this particular way, with this one simple custom, perhaps we can walk back our social deterioration and repair our humanity.     

It all starts with a look in the eye and a nod. 

See y’all on the streets ~ JLL

Heyhowyadoin’ yes we’re mostly friendly