As a state, North Carolina is certainly a part of the American South. It sits firmly between two of the original 13 colonies, Virginia and South Carolina. It’s where some of the most quintessential Southern cuisine was born: Cheerwine, Bojangles, Cook Out. 

But as someone who grew up in the suburbs of Cary, N.C., I used to actively and enthusiastically reject any ties to “Southerness.” The region, the culture and even its history weren’t things I felt were a part of my experiences, especially with parents whose beginnings in this country trace back only to the late 1980s. The South could be Black and white, but what about Asian? In no world was “Southern” identity something I imagined I could hold close to my chest and say with conviction: “This is mine.” 

It’s hard to discern what might have led me to that point. North Carolina is a Southern state, but what about Raleigh, the capital? Or the Triangle? Why is it that I perceived the Southerness of Brevard, N.C. as being so distinctly different from Cary, N.C.? How do perceptions of something being “rural” or “small town,” or being non-Black and non-white affect those self-identifiers?

Immigration in different eras and to different parts of the country is inextricably tied to historical context, from the construction of the Transcontinental railroad to the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965. But the erasure of the narratives of Asians in the American South lead me to reconsider community formation and identity.

Who chooses to take on the identity of a “Southerner”? What does that mean? And how does that change, across generations, in a community whose beginnings in the state only really span halfway through the 20th century?