Fiction by Chella Courington

Chella Courington is a cis, bisexual woman born and raised in Southern Appalachia in a storytelling family who taught her how to value the word. Courington’s creative publications include one novel, one novella, several chapbooks of poetry and fiction, and poems and stories in journals and anthologies. Her fiction and poetry have been nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best New Poetry, and Best Short Fiction. With teaching as her livelihood, she moved from Montgomery, Alabama, to Santa Barbara, California, twenty years ago, giving her the space and distance to understand her past. 

Alabama Girl: Homage to Jamaica Kincaid

Don’t smoke cigarettes, and if you do, never smoke in the house or on a date; and by all means don’t walk while smoking or you’ll look cheap; don’t drink till you’re 21, and not much then, some boy will try to get into your pants and there you’ll be—unmarried and a baby to raise. Open the door for the person behind you, whether it’s a girl or boy; there’s no substitute for good manners, it means good breeding; whenever you leave, be sure Blackie has water in the backyard and front. Always answer the phone on the second ring; the first makes you look too eager, no sought-after girl wants to look eager; the third ring makes you look lazy, a sign you’ll be fat one of these days; and work on baking your biscuits, just never eat them or you’ll be big as a house. Always be sweet as pie to the postman, Blackie’s bitten him twice; never contradict your father, especially when he comes home from work; after he’s had two bourbons and finished the news, then you can talk. Always close the door to your bedroom; you never know when a friend of your dad is in the house, and if he sees your bed, he’ll think you’re a loose girl and start talk about you. Don’t let air escape in public; it shows you were raised in a barn with no breeding; bathe once a day, and if you can’t, always take a whore’s bath; a lady never smells, and that goes for deodorant too. Don’t spit in public; a lady never spits when she can be seen, and if you have a piece of chicken you can’t swallow, excuse yourself and spit it in the toilet. Pay attention to the preacher on Sunday; if his wife catches you looking off, she might think you’re tired from fooling around Saturday night and start talking about you. Take the house key whenever you leave; you never know when your father or I may run out; and never on your life have a boy inside this house unless one of us is here. Boys are out for one thing, and if you’re that kind of girl, you’ re going to wind up like your cousin Lorene—unmarried and a baby to raise.