A Northerners Advice To Charleston Women

Charleston, I love you. You’re beautiful. I loved walking down your cobble streets, exploring the tombstones of Unitarian Church Graveyard, and photographing your iconic homes. I loved your food and your coffee shops. I even loved Upper King Street at the drunken hour as frat boys left one of the several CBD shops (or were they bars? I couldn’t tell.).

But this Northerner thinks your ladies need a little adjusting. Before the inevitably offended speak up, hear me out. I think some things need to be said without reservation.


I’m a born and raised New Yorker, I didn’t move here from the mid-west, or Florida, and as such I was taught two very important pieces of life information to get by: learn when to have your bitch face on and learn when to take it off. Bitch face goes on as a way to avoid being taken advantage of, because in this city it’s inevitable someone will try. It comes off at all other times. It’s simply survival. Some of us may have RBF (resting bitch face) but it’s just an unfortunate side effect. Otherwise, I’m a pretty open, friendly person.

Charleston women, conversely, seem to live by the Golden Rule of ‘if you can’t say something nice, don’t say it at all’ and that’s why they’re always smiling.

After spending a week alone in Charleston, the Queen City of Southern Hospitality, I quickly learned that when it comes to the women of the area southern charm is only skin deep. I’ll be the first to admit that everywhere I went I felt welcomed. Or maybe it was my tourism money, ‘Yankee walking this way!’ I’m a dead ringer. In a city that greets nearly 7 million visitors annually they have the pretty smile and warm small talk mastered perfectly. But any attempt at an actual connection, female to female, and I might as well have the Scarlett letter on my forehead.

Back home female empowerment is sweeping the area. If I compliment someones outfit in person, or comment on an Instagram photo, suddenly I laid the groundwork for a potential blossoming friendship. Numbers are exchanged, I’ll get bombarded with dozens of supportive ‘likes’ on IG, and the friendship dating game begins. It seems the female population is constantly striving for something in common and a new way to network. However, Charleston women just don’t care. I wasn’t one of them and they made sure I knew it.

In a city that only removed the Confederate Flag in 2015 and still holds a statewide ban of off-premise hard liquor sales on Sunday, I guess it’s no surprise that all of the Charleston women I interacted with were reluctant to further any sort of camaraderie with me. They were married and culturally discouraged from chasing substantial careers. Then I show up, an unmarried Yankee, traveling alone, writing a book.

The cultural difference is palpable and very real. Yet, what got to me wasn’t the lack of interest but rather the backhanded way they’d go about it.

I had numerous conversations with women I actually grew fond of, whether it be for their fashion, lifestyle, or other, and wanted to stay in touch for the next time I visited. Keeping contacts in other destinations is in my nature, I genuinely enjoy a global network of personalities and foster those friendships. And yet when the time came to actually follow through on potential plans, or exchange numbers, the opportunity was intentionally lost.

If I’m disinterested in something, or someone, I don’t pussyfoot around it, I walk away, there are better ways to spend my energy. Southern girls are the opposite.  

It’s not that I was rejected but rather blatantly disregarded from the get-go, without my knowledge. 

I’m actually shocked I didn’t hear the words ‘bless your heart’ once during my trip (FYI, as I learned from a gentleman in town, ‘Bless your heart’ is a euphemism for ‘Go fcuk yourself’).

So, Charleston ladies, if you’re reading this, try and be a little more open minded to strangers. Or, tell us to get lost. Either way, it’s fine. But what I don’t appreciate is the fake sense of kindness that seems to penetrate the cities culture and is masked in pastels. Insincerity doesn’t suit you.

The Future is 20 20

The year is two thousand and twenty. And, while I certainly cannot predict what the future holds, I intend on making the absolute most of it.

2019 proved to be a year dedicated towards pushing my limits, both physical and emotional. Nearly each month awaited a new uphill battle to prove my strength. It left me a little beat up and a lot tired, finding myself curled up on the floor praying for the strength to just get through, on more than one occasion, paralleled with an overwhelming sense of accomplishment on other days. Through it all, I’ve learned that each step is a choice to keep going or turn around.

After weeks of deliberating, 2020 will begin with my first solo trip. This decision didn’t come lightly. I put several flights on temporary hold and stacked my AirBnB wish lists with various stays across the United States. The options faded away, booking out or pricing out. I was scared, unwilling to admit to myself that I couldn’t muster the courage to actually go somewhere without a companion. But recent life events have caused me to question my own pathway, feeling like a cliché Robert Frost poem.

With one more flight on hold, and AirBnB stays narrowed down to only two choices, this morning I woke up and resolved to face my fears. I need perspective. I need time to think. Most importantly, I need to get some real distance. I’m going to Charleston, South Carolina, the place of “Southern Charm” (at least that’s what Bravo! promises). Travel + Leisure even rated Charleston No. 1 in the Best United States Cities category, seven years in a row.

Click, click, all booked, nonrefundable. There’s no turning back now.