13 Things Virginians Say That Confuse Everyone Else

A guy from Roanoke tells a coworker in Denver he grew up in RoVA, not NoVA.

She nods, completely lost, and asks if that’s near the coast.

He tries again with the 757 and Tidewater, and now she’s more confused than before.

These are the words only Virginians throw around without thinking twice.

Commonwealth, Not State

Virginia isn’t a state, at least not the way a Virginian will tell it.

It’s the Commonwealth.

Only four places in the country carry that label, and Virginia claimed it first in 1776 to signal a government built for the common good.

Ask a clerk in Richmond to fix a form and they’ll swap “state” for “Commonwealth” without blinking.

Nobody’s letting that go.

NoVA and RoVA

Virginians split their own state into two camps, and the line runs right up I-95.

NoVA means Northern Virginia, the sprawl of Arlington, Alexandria, and Fairfax that leans toward Washington.

RoVA is everything else, the Rest of Virginia.

Say you’re from NoVA in a Blacksburg diner and you’ll get a look.

Two different worlds.

One argues about the crawl on the Beltway, the other about which barbecue joint runs out of brisket by noon.

The DMV

When a Virginian says they’re from the DMV, they don’t mean the office that renews your driver’s license.

They mean the region: D.C., Maryland, and Virginia.

It covers the counties orbiting Washington, and locals wear the tag like a badge.

Tell someone in Seattle you’re in the DMV and they’ll picture you stuck in a line for a new tag.

Total mix-up.

Go-go music, half-smokes, and the Beltway suburbs all fall under those three letters.

Hokies and Wahoos

Virginia’s biggest rivalry lives in two words outsiders can’t parse: Hokies and Wahoos.

Hokies are Virginia Tech people, and the word came from a made-up cheer a student wrote for a campus contest back in 1896.

Wahoos, or just Hoos, are University of Virginia folks, stuck with the name from an old school yell in Charlottesville.

The mascot side gets stranger, since Tech’s HokieBird is a turkey.

Fighting words.

Wear the wrong maroon or orange to the wrong tailgate and you’ll hear about it.

The 804

Virginians name their home turf by area code, and the 804 means Richmond and the country around it.

It’s shorthand for the capital, from Church Hill down to the James River.

Musicians shout it out, and shops print it on t-shirts.

Ask what the 804 is and a native will look at you like you forgot your own phone number.

Pure Richmond.

The 757

Down in Hampton Roads, Virginians claim the 757 the same way, and it wraps in Virginia Beach, Norfolk, and the whole coastal corner.

People there call themselves 757 before they’ll say Hampton Roads, which is a mouthful anyway.

Locals also call it the Seven Cities.

So many bridges and tunnels stitch it together that newcomers get lost between exits.

Bridge life.

The Fan

In Richmond, Virginians will tell you they live in the Fan, and no, it has nothing to do with cooling off.

The streets spread west from Monroe Park in a fan shape, so a newspaper editor pinned the name on the neighborhood in the mid-1900s.

Rows of restored townhouses line those blocks now.

Tell a friend from Louisville you're meeting in the Fan and they'll picture a stadium section.

Nope.

It's one of the largest intact Victorian districts in the country.

Which Burg?

Ask a Virginian to meet you in the Burg and you'd better ask which one.

To a Virginia Tech student, the Burg is Blacksburg, tucked up in the Blue Ridge.

Near Colonial Williamsburg, the Burg means Williamsburg, hours east.

Same nickname, two towns, opposite ends of the state.

Pick one.

Guess wrong and you're driving the length of I-64 to fix it.

The Tidewater Brogue

Out on Tangier Island, Virginians speak with an accent that stops visitors cold.

The old Tidewater brogue turns "high tide" into something close to "hoi toide," a sound linguists trace back centuries.

Watermen crabbing the Chesapeake still carry it.

Sounds almost British.

The island sits so far out in the bay that the way of talking barely shifted for generations.

Come-Heres and From-Heres

On Virginia's Eastern Shore, people sort each other into come-heres and from-heres.

Someone who's from-here traces their family to the peninsula going back generations.

A come-here moved in, maybe decades ago, and still hasn't shaken the label.

Buy a house in Onancock and you're a come-here for life.

No graduating.

You can spot a come-here by the accent before they finish a sentence.

Brunswick Stew

Order Brunswick stew anywhere in Virginia and you'll get a thick pot of it, usually next to the barbecue.

Virginians insist the dish started in Brunswick County, and one story credits a hunting-camp cook in 1828.

Georgia claims the same stew, which restarts an old argument every summer.

Old feud.

Tomatoes, corn, lima beans, and pulled meat simmer for hours until a spoon stands up in the bowl.

Goober

In Virginia peanut country, a goober is a peanut, plain as that.

The word came from an African word, nguba, carried to the coast through the slave trade.

Around Suffolk, the self-styled peanut capital, farmers grow the fat Virginia-type peanuts you crack open at a ballpark.

Call them goobers there and nobody flinches.

Just lunch.

Order boiled goobers at a roadside stand and you'll get a warm, soft, salty scoop.

Y'all, Might Could, Fixin' To

Some Virginia phrases you'll hear all over the state, from Bristol to Virginia Beach, not just one corner.

Y'all covers any group, and "all y'all" stretches it wider.

"Might could" means maybe, as in "I might could make it Saturday."

Second nature.