I stared past the dark, wood-paneled wall covered in fishnets toward the window and watched as an old woman wheeled her husband into Shelby Fish Camp.

Pawpaw George, Nana Ruth, Aunt Lula Mae and I had gotten there just in time for the senior special. There was no shortage of hush puppies dipped in a whipped butter spread and fried catfish tenders. I looked around me and smiled at all of the little old heads—the elderly women teased their white and grey tufts into cotton balls.

My phone lit up with a text message, “Hey! How’s North Carolina with the grandparents? We are about to board for Mexico!”

Nope. This was not your typical college spring break.

As my friends sailed off on a cruise for Latin dancing and tequila sunrises, I went to visit my grandparents out in rural North Carolina.

I guess sometimes I like to do things a little bit differently.

I guess you might even call me weird for passing on a cruise with friends to the tropics for a cow pasture instead.

When I accepted my position here as a reporter at The Selma Times-Journal, my friends gave me the same confused look at the lunch table as when I turned them down on a Carnival Cruise.

They were concerned about me moving to Selma all by myself. Several of my girlfriends tried to talk me out of it. I learned really quickly that Selma had a strange reputation that even my parents were hesitant about.

I waved goodbye to those friends at graduation as they moved to Birmingham, Atlanta and the Los Angeles; glamorous places of the world with lots to tweet about.

“I guess sometimes its okay to move somewhere different,” I thought to justify my decision. “Its okay to be a little weird.”

In my one week as a new resident in Selma, I’ve learned this town and myself have a lot in common.

I’ve learned Selma’s bad reputation is spurred on by rumors from people who are afraid to go somewhere different — people who are afraid of people and places who are weird and unlike themselves.

In one week, I have met Selmians that have traveled the world, people who do P90X on their back porch, people who have actually been injured in Civil War reenactments and people who helped save lives on Bloody Sunday.

I think there is so much to learn about in this very different — and slightly weird — town that I now call home.

So here’s to us Selma. Even though the world might not always like us because we are different, lets hope they fall in love with us because we are weird.