I moved to Nashville, Tennessee from Fresno, California when I was ten years old and let me tell you immediately: the culture shock was absolutely violent. Not physically violent. Socially violent. Spiritually violent. The kind of violent where adults look at you after you answer a question and you suddenly realize you have somehow offended an entire region of the United States without even understanding how.

I still remember the concerned looks from family friends in California when my parents announced we were moving. They knew the move would ultimately change our lives for the better because my father was starting his residency at Meharry Medical College, but they also knew something else very important: we were not culturally prepared.

The first thing people told us was: “These kids better learn how to say yes ma’am and no sir.”

Now in my little California mind I thought, easy. Absolutely. I can do that. I know words. What no one explained to me was that I also needed to stop saying “yeah,” “what,” “huh,” and “like” every other sentence. Apparently the entire casual California communication style was not going to carry well in Tennessee.

So we arrived in Nashville, started school, and within approximately thirty-seven minutes I had already developed a reputation. Teachers thought I was disrespectful. My classmates thought I was ditsy. Eventually everyone just started calling me “the girl from Cali,” which ironically became how I got my name.

The first year was rough. I spent most of it confused about why everyone sounded simultaneously nicer and more offended than people back home. But eventually we found a rhythm. I never fully adopted the accent or the slang, but I did learn something very important: in the South, manners are not decoration. They are structure. Especially in Black Southern culture. Respect was woven into everyday speech, greetings, hosting, introductions, and even how children moved through public spaces.

The real lesson came the following year.

As you probably already know by now, my favorite form of entertainment growing up was other people’s mothers. I was fascinated by them. Their rules. Their houses. Their church voices. Their handbags. Their emotional authority. Honestly, I studied Black motherhood the way some people study anthropology.

One day one of my friend’s moms was driving us to the mall and casually asked if we wanted to stop at McDonald’s. Now please understand something important about my childhood: my parents rarely bought fast food. So to me this was not just McDonald’s. This was luxury dining. This was an event.

“Yeah!!!” I screamed from the backseat with the excitement of someone who had never seen a french fry before.

Silence.

Then slowly she said:
“What did you say?”

Immediately my stomach dropped because I genuinely did not know what crime had occurred. I remember saying, “Who me?” which honestly did not help my situation at all.

“Yes. You.”

At this point I am replaying the entire conversation in my head trying to locate the offense. Finally I whispered: “I think I said yeah…”

This woman pulled the car over.

Now listen to me carefully when I say I thought my life was over. I was convinced she was either going to spank me, leave me on the side of the road, or both. Honestly I was mostly relieved my sister was in the car because at least someone could explain my disappearance to my parents.

She calmly walked around the car, opened my door, and asked me to step outside. I was terrified. Truly. I can still feel the fear in my chest thinking about it now.

Then she leaned over and said something I have never forgotten: “If you are going to spend time with my daughter, I need to teach you how to be a respectful young lady.”

Tears immediately filled my eyes.

She explained that when an adult asks me a question, my response should always be “Yes ma’am,” “No ma’am,” “Yes sir,” or “No sir.” Not “yeah.” Not a head nod. Not “what.” She told me people would judge my character based on how I spoke and that my manners would either open doors for me or quietly close them.

I remember whispering “Yes ma’am” back to her while shaking and trying not to cry.

But then she softened and said something that honestly changed me forever. She told me this was not because I was a bad child. It was because I was a good child. And because I was a good child, someone needed to correct me before my lack of manners disturbed my future.

Whew.

Even now that story gives me chills because this is the power of Black motherhood when it exists communally. A woman who was not my mother loved me enough to correct me. Not humiliate me. Correct me. There is a difference. She understood that children need guidance from community, not just parents.

Honestly I think we are losing some of that now.

My parents were immigrants navigating systems and cultural rules they themselves were still learning, so I became obsessed with observing how other families behaved. I read books about etiquette constantly. I watched how women greeted guests, how they hosted dinners, how they corrected children without embarrassing them, how they spoke in professional spaces, and how they carried themselves in public. Manners became fascinating to me because I realized they were not really about perfection. They were about consideration. They were about making other people feel acknowledged and respected.

Now let me also say this clearly before somebody gets stressed in the comments: I am not perfect. In fact I still refuse to do thank you notes because personally I believe we have enough paper in landfills already and everybody already heard me say thank you in real time. But I do care deeply about greetings, eye contact, introductions, hosting well, table manners, and teaching children how to move confidently through the world.

Lately I have started intentionally teaching my own children these things. We listen to audiobooks about manners in the car. We practice introductions at home. We rehearse how to greet adults properly before church and events. My children are learning to shake hands, look people in the eye, introduce themselves with their full names, and say “nice to meet you.”

Yesterday my son tried it for the first time at church and when I tell you the older woman he greeted almost burst into tears, I mean she was genuinely emotional. Because five-year-olds rarely walk up confidently, shake hands, make eye contact, and introduce themselves anymore.

And honestly? That is part of the problem.

We are raising children in an era where social skills are disappearing in real time. Everybody is anxious. Everybody is looking down at phones. Everybody is avoiding eye contact. Meanwhile simple warmth, confidence, and respectful communication now feel almost shocking when you encounter them.

And no, I am not trying to raise tiny aristocrats. I am trying to raise children who know how to enter rooms with confidence, warmth, and consideration for others. Children who understand that manners are not about acting superior. They are about helping other people feel comfortable too.

So yes, I care about etiquette.

Because somewhere in Nashville, Tennessee a Black woman pulled over a car long enough to teach a little California girl that how you speak to people matters.

And truthfully?

She was absolutely right.

Always Have, Always Will ~ Kalie