A New York State of Mind
by Mike Litrel, M.D.

It was 15 years ago that I came to Georgia from New York, following my fiancé after college graduation. There were two things about the South I learned right away.

The first was that the correct name for "The American Civil War" was actually "The War between the States."

The second was that it hadn't ended yet.

I discovered I was a "Yankee" and I figured out it wasn't a compliment. To make matters worse, the summer I moved to Georgia, a Ku Klux Klan rally in Forsyth County made the national news — white robes, Grand Wizards, and everything. Some ignoramus even put one of those pointy hats on a beautiful three year old child. It broke my heart.

As a New Yorker, you don't dislike people based on skin color. Looks don't matter. You dislike everyone equally.

So I was in a state of culture shock. It took me a while to learn to fit in. But eventually I took Ann's advice and stopped muttering "racist redneck" every time I heard a Southern accent.

Over the next few years I came to be friends with many small town Southerners. Through these friendships, I came to appreciate the culture and wisdom of the American South. And I began to wish for my children much of what my Southern friends had experienced in growing up here.

So when I finished my medical training at Emory, Ann and I moved to Cherokee County to raise our family. Here we met our neighbor Mike Leonard, a Southerner through and through. "I'm just a redneck — and proud of it, boy," Mike will say with a laugh. (And he really is — a race car in his garage and everything.) In his eyes, I'll always be a "damned" Yankee. (The expletive sometimes varies, but the sentiment stays the same.) Mike's one of those rare people so honest and true that I suspected after our very first conversation I had just met a lifelong friend.

Last year, a few days after September 11, Mike was standing in line at Wal-Mart behind a burly middle-aged man wearing a T-shirt with a Confederate Flag emblem. The cashier was waiting on two young men in front of him. One of the young men commented to the other: "I don't know why everybody's so upset about the World Trade Center — it's just a bunch of dead New Yorkers."

Without missing a beat, the burly man wearing the Confederate flag punched that young man in the jaw and knocked him out cold. When the police arrived and heard the story from all involved, they thanked the burly man and let him go. The two young men were arrested instead.

My eyes teared up when I heard Mike's story. It was American justice, Southern style. In the South, ideas like Truth and Honor permeate the very air we breathe. In New York, the loudmouths would never have been arrested. (But the policemen might have taken a few potshots when no one was looking.)

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights — that amongst these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

These are holy words to me, my favorites from our Declaration of Independence. America is indeed a holy place. She is a beacon for human civilization, lighting the way for people everywhere. When She is injured or threatened, we forget the superficial things that sometimes divide us, and remember we are Americans, first and foremost — and blessed by God with that privilege.

So Ann's painting of the Twin Towers among the landscapes of Cherokee County now makes sense to me. For clearly evident amidst the barns and the train depots of North Georgia, is also the image of the World Trade Center, looming over us. It echoes in the heart and soul of every American — Southerner and Northerner alike.

Dr. Litrel is in practice at Cherokee Women's OB/GYN in Woodstock and Canton and is a Clinical Assistant Professor at Emory University School of Medicine. He lives in Towne Lake with his wife Ann and their two sons Tyler and Joseph. (Atlantalitrels@CS.com)

My e-mail address accompanies all the articles I write. I figure it lets the readers express their views on what I have written, both positive and negative. In the past two years, as I have poured out my heart and soul in monthly articles, I have received a grand total of four e-mails.

Three out of four were decidedly negative. Of these three, two were from former New Yorkers. And one was from a former drug addict.

The ability to accept constructive criticism is paramount to self-improvement. But I'd rather not hear from people who are convinced I am a "total idiot" and a "terrible role model for my children." It's not that I'm denying these accusations, mind you. But given the choice, I'd rather be inundated with letters telling me what an awesome guy I am.

Nevertheless, I have learned my lesson. So I will no longer make disparaging comments about drug addicts. Especially if they happen to be from New York.

But being born and bred in that great state, I cannot in good conscience give up two decades of memories — even at the risk of offending readers. (Warning to all former New Yorkers: Put the magazine away. Take a deep breath. It's Okay.)

Early in our marriage, Ann and I visited New York during the winter to see my family. We were driving downtown one night when Ann insisted I pull over. Before I could stop her, she had jumped out of the car with her camera. She ignored my well-informed protests and stared at the distant Twin Towers, muttering to herself like a schizophrenic about shadows and lights and beauty. She snapped a photo of the buildings towering above us.

Ann is an artist. The fits that overtake an artist were new to me back then. My perspective was (and still is) that anyone who gets out of the car in Lower Manhattan after dusk to take a photograph of a skyscraper is begging to get mugged. But we were newlyweds. So I smiled indulgently despite the cold. And I took a baseball bat out of my trunk to stand guard.

Times have changed in 15 years of marriage. We still pull over at unexpected moments to take photographs. But I've long since stopped smiling indulgently.

For the past six months, Ann has been working on a series of paintings based on Cherokee County. So lately it's been photographs of hot empty fields with the occasional haystack. She still talks about shadows and lights and beauty.

But all I see are hot empty fields with the occasional haystack.

Last month Ann began a painting of the Twin Towers from the photograph she took so many years ago. I was surprised. Amidst the landscapes of North Georgia, the skyline of Manhattan didn't seem to fit. But over the ensuing weeks, as I watched the World Trade Center take its place in her studio, I began to understand.