President's birth certificate these days (really? like there's nothing else we need to be talking about?), I feel I must make a confession.
I am not a Tar Heel born.
There, I said it. It hurts a little, but it's true.
I am still a Tar Heel bred. And when I die, I'm a Tar Heel dead. But when I was born, my parents were living in (...wait for it...)
Gasp! Shocking, I know.
My dad took a job with U.S. Steel after he graduated college, so my parents were living in Pittsburgh, PA, when their first bundle of joy arrived. Because I was only nine months old when they packed up and moved us to North Carolina, I've always considered myself a life-long Southerner.
But if you asked me to prove my NC pedigree, I'd have to show you something other than my birth certificate. Things like... eating barbecue and Krispy Kremes, loving sweet potatoes (the state vegetable!), saying "y'all" regularly, having two degrees from Carolina, drinking sweet tea and Cheerwine, knowing how to shag (the dance, people -- get your British minds out of the gutter).
You think if I go to a NASCAR race, that would be enough to silence any birther questions?