A fictional-yet-all-too-real region found across large swaths of the Southeastern United States, where the air hums with the twang of banjos, the trucks wear a permanent coat of mud, and the Confederate flag waves like it’s still 1861. Mobile homes outnumber stoplights, rebel flags are standard issue, and dental hygiene has taken a long sabbatical—giving rise to the infamous “summer teeth” (some are here, some are there).
Banjoland isn't a place on any map—it’s a state of mind, a lifestyle, and often, a family tree with one branch.
Banjoland isn't a place on any map—it’s a state of mind, a lifestyle, and often, a family tree with one branch.
Me: I asked for directions and the guy said, “Turn left at the burnt-down Dollar General.”
Also me: Yup. Banjoland.
Sign at town line:
“Welcome to Banjoland: Home of the triple cousin reunion, population negotiable.”
Friend: What’s holding that trailer together?
Me: A Confederate flag, zip ties, and generational trauma.
Friend: Yep. Banjoland.
Cop: You know why I pulled you over?
Driver: Because I got city plates and I’m not related to you.
Cop: Welcome to Banjoland.
Also me: Yup. Banjoland.
Sign at town line:
“Welcome to Banjoland: Home of the triple cousin reunion, population negotiable.”
Friend: What’s holding that trailer together?
Me: A Confederate flag, zip ties, and generational trauma.
Friend: Yep. Banjoland.
Cop: You know why I pulled you over?
Driver: Because I got city plates and I’m not related to you.
Cop: Welcome to Banjoland.
by Pary Moppins July 10, 2025