 | Erin Marsh Marsh Madness |
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Last week I returned to my hometown, where Republicans are a dime a dozen and status is measured by the number of Chevys on cement blocks in the front yard. There's no place like home. What is our romanticized notion of a small town, anyway?
Mellencamp and Springsteen sing its praises; novelists capitalize on its rustic popularity; poets and film directors damn near make us cry with the poignancy of it all. Yet when I return home to my small hometown in Southwest Michigan, the claustrophobia is overwhelming. There's nothing particularly touching or wonderful about a place that fosters prejudice, intolerance and ignorance. It breeds stunning diplomats: "Uh, yeah, I think I seen a Jew once, on the news or somethin'."
When I reached that magical, secret age when children are finally cognizant of what the hell is going on, I thought, "What - is there an invisible sign at the city limits that says 'no minorities allowed?'" The tapioca-pudding population leaves much to be desired.
The worst part about small towns is that they're never content to be small towns. No - we have to build a McDonald's and a strip mall, and add a few more franchised video stores and then by God, then we'll be worth our spit! So this leaves you sitting at the end of the McDonald's driveway, waiting to turn left, thinking, "If I'm not mistaken, this is traffic. Now, traffic usually occurs when you are somewhere. I, however, am absolutely positive that I am, in fact, nowhere. We have a McDonald's, yes, but still only one stoplight and still a WASPy presentation of American history in our schools! We are nowhere! AND WHY THE HELL DO WE HAVE TRAFFIC?!" Getting a cheeseburger in a small town can therefore be a profoundly disturbing experience.
Don't get me wrong - I'm absolutely in love with the concept of small towns. They should simply all be like the fictional Cicely, Alaska, in the now-extinct television show "Northern Exposure." Bogart film festivals, artichokes at the local general store, book discussions and feminist groups congregating at the town hall, and even occasional visits to the tavern by the local hermit/eccentric gourmet - and all this supported by a population of 726. Heaven. I might actually consider giving up Meijer for that.
In short, there's nothing wrong with small towns in terms of size. (It's not the size that counts, you know ... oh, stop it.) It's the proliferation of small-town mentality that's so frustrating. Small-town mentality can occur in the largest metropolises. Rush Limbaugh comes from St. Louis, and he's still an idiot. I left my hometown in search of broader philosophies - ones that extend beyond the homogeneity of white, heterosexual Christian male supremacy. I found what I was looking for. Some moldy leftovers, though, also found their way here - demonstrating that not all morons are isolated to small towns.
Likewise, not all small-towners are morons. There are small specks of light, miraculous prophets of hope who whisper, "Psssst - hey. It's not all this bad. Trust me. Go - leave for a while and dig around out there. Come back and tell me what you see!" These people are amazing.
But then, I guess that's what parents are for.
(Small-towners who know what I'm talking about, please give them, him or her a call, to say "thanks.")
Beyond significant intellectual and philosophical deficiencies, one of the most superficially annoying things about small towns is that you already know everybody. And worse, they know you too. Going right from the gym, all sweaty and gross, to pick up groceries for Mom is particularly unpleasant when the cashier, bag boy and store manager are all in your graduating class. Driving up Main Street requires a baseball cap, sunglasses and major slouching to avoid waves from the high school vice principal, mayor and part-time fire chief, who - guess what! - are all the same person.
It's a nice place to visit - once in a while. People are, for the most part, friendly, and usually interested in hearing what goes on "way over there in Ann Arbor." (Hash Bash stories go over real well.) I especially like going back at Christmastime, when the narrow streets are all snowy, and the wrought-iron streetlamps are adorned with evergreen boughs and red ribbons.
Of course, only Christian holidays are celebrated there, because to include even a mere acknowledgement of other faiths would violate the city's Christian-only ordinance. It's frustrating - but I have to remember that these are the same folks who drive around with "Impeach Clinton" stickers on their lovely, Confederate-flag adorned Dodge Rams.
- Erin Marsh can be reached over e-mail at eemarsh@umich.edu.