My mental image: a friendly, sporty kid who’d teach me cool Northern slang. Reality: a lanky, pale teenager who looked at my pet rooster with open disdain and asked, “Do people here actually choose to live without public transit?”
For a Yankee-type guy, entertainment is often tied to and competition .
The author of this story has a relatively small and tight-knit family, where everyone generally gets along and shares similar values. However, there is one notable exception – their cousin, who is a Yankee-type guy. For those unfamiliar with the term, a Yankee typically refers to someone from the Northeastern United States, particularly New England, who is known for their directness, practicality, and no-nonsense attitude. In this case, the cousin in question embodies these characteristics, which often leads to interesting and sometimes contentious interactions within the family. My Only Bitchy Cousin Is a Yankee-Type Guy- The...
By high school, he was six feet tall, razor-thin, and had developed a vocabulary specifically designed to make you feel like a piece of lint on his blazer. He went to a boarding school in Connecticut where they apparently taught Latin, crew, and the fine art of condescension. I went to public school in Macon, where I learned how to hotwire a golf cart and make a bong out of a Gatorade bottle. We had nothing to say to each other.
Over the next few days, I learned that Julian’s “bitchiness” was actually a defense mechanism. His father had left; his mother was working two jobs; and he’d been shipped to Georgia not for a vacation, but because no one in Massachusetts could handle him. His sharp tongue was a wall. His criticism of our sweet tea was a way of saying, I don’t belong here, so I’ll reject it before it rejects me. My mental image: a friendly, sporty kid who’d
Here’s the thing about bitchy Yankee-type guys: they don’t fight like Southerners. We go passive-aggressive; they go aggressively honest. When I tried to prank Julian by hiding his suitcase, he simply said, “I know you took it. The zipper shows signs of recent stress. I’d like it back by 8 p.m.—I need my melatonin.”
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That night, after everyone went to bed, I found him on the back porch, looking at the stars. The sky in Georgia is nothing like the sky in Connecticut. He had a beer—a Miller Lite, because he was still a Yankee-Type Guy and couldn’t drink a proper sweet ale to save his life.