First Post
In my family of stalwart Republicans there lives a stealthy rogue Democrat gene. It manifests itself in every other generation; its last appearance was in my father's mother. The rest of the family tolerates Democrats in its midst because we bake excellent bread.
However, I did not come here to talk about politics. I am here to tell little stories. I am an Iowan who's been away for 18 years and is sick to death of being either a graduate student or a member of a low-paid part-time labor force. I have moved into my parents' upstairs loft for a few weeks in order to have the leisure to recover from a back injury at one of my assorted part-time jobs and also to find a decent full-time job. In the meantime, I am facing reverse culture shock, which is well known for being worse than regular culture shock.
When a science fiction writer sets a story in the distant past or future, or some galaxy far far away, the writer often gives us a hero who doesn't belong there, someone from our own place and time period whom we can relate to. Otherwise how would we understand all the things that denizens of the foreign land or era take for granted?
I don't know what place I belong to any more, but Iowa is definitely somewhat alien. I grew up here, but 7 years in Texas (very alien) and 9 years in Rhode Island (I never did figure out what to do with that place) did not leave me unchanged. I was always a city girl inside, but now I'm just a city girl all over, and it's obvious to absolutely everyone, not only to me. Even when I take off the dress shoes and the black clothing, the urban Northeast clings to me like Boston fog, the damp air that sticks in your lungs.
One of the first things I did in Iowa this summer was to attend the Red Power Roundup, a gathering of International Harvester tractors and their owners. You may laugh, but I have every right to attend tractor festivals. My grandfather was an IH dealer, and I find farm equipment fascinating from a technical standpoint. I love going to the Farm Progress Show. However, I do stick out like a sore thumb. The Red Power Roundup in particular is a real downhome country event. They actually sell bumper stickers that say, "Friends don't let friends drive green tractors." (IH is red, and John Deere is green.) I attended this event to support a dear friend, and my friend thought those bumper stickers were hilarious. To this day, I simply cannot fathom it.
When I lived in New England, I was sad that life was so seldom deeply weird, so it is good to be west of the Mississippi again. I loved living in Texas because there was something hilarious everywhere I went. Iowa comes close. Recently I went to a bar with some friends, and there was a man there wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed in block letters, "I F*** SHEEP." All letters were present and accounted for. After living on the East Coast, where people looked askance at me if my shirt was too blue (how daring), it is nice to be in a place where a man can proclaim his affinity for sheep. Besides the sheep lovin man, the band at the bar had a gratuitous mascot that was a condom named Pokey.
Texans still don't believe me when I tell them there are rednecks in Iowa. They don't believe me that there are hills either.
Another surreal event was bowling with Ukrainians. Only in Iowa. The Ukrainians had never bowled before. One woman always stood completely still and threw her ball down the alley from that immobile position. She scored higher than I did.
Irish pub and Harley bar, Smithsonian museum and chainsaw artists, river walk and fish fry Friday, that's my Iowa. It's not as weird as Texas, but it will do.
However, I did not come here to talk about politics. I am here to tell little stories. I am an Iowan who's been away for 18 years and is sick to death of being either a graduate student or a member of a low-paid part-time labor force. I have moved into my parents' upstairs loft for a few weeks in order to have the leisure to recover from a back injury at one of my assorted part-time jobs and also to find a decent full-time job. In the meantime, I am facing reverse culture shock, which is well known for being worse than regular culture shock.
When a science fiction writer sets a story in the distant past or future, or some galaxy far far away, the writer often gives us a hero who doesn't belong there, someone from our own place and time period whom we can relate to. Otherwise how would we understand all the things that denizens of the foreign land or era take for granted?
I don't know what place I belong to any more, but Iowa is definitely somewhat alien. I grew up here, but 7 years in Texas (very alien) and 9 years in Rhode Island (I never did figure out what to do with that place) did not leave me unchanged. I was always a city girl inside, but now I'm just a city girl all over, and it's obvious to absolutely everyone, not only to me. Even when I take off the dress shoes and the black clothing, the urban Northeast clings to me like Boston fog, the damp air that sticks in your lungs.
One of the first things I did in Iowa this summer was to attend the Red Power Roundup, a gathering of International Harvester tractors and their owners. You may laugh, but I have every right to attend tractor festivals. My grandfather was an IH dealer, and I find farm equipment fascinating from a technical standpoint. I love going to the Farm Progress Show. However, I do stick out like a sore thumb. The Red Power Roundup in particular is a real downhome country event. They actually sell bumper stickers that say, "Friends don't let friends drive green tractors." (IH is red, and John Deere is green.) I attended this event to support a dear friend, and my friend thought those bumper stickers were hilarious. To this day, I simply cannot fathom it.
When I lived in New England, I was sad that life was so seldom deeply weird, so it is good to be west of the Mississippi again. I loved living in Texas because there was something hilarious everywhere I went. Iowa comes close. Recently I went to a bar with some friends, and there was a man there wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed in block letters, "I F*** SHEEP." All letters were present and accounted for. After living on the East Coast, where people looked askance at me if my shirt was too blue (how daring), it is nice to be in a place where a man can proclaim his affinity for sheep. Besides the sheep lovin man, the band at the bar had a gratuitous mascot that was a condom named Pokey.
Texans still don't believe me when I tell them there are rednecks in Iowa. They don't believe me that there are hills either.
Another surreal event was bowling with Ukrainians. Only in Iowa. The Ukrainians had never bowled before. One woman always stood completely still and threw her ball down the alley from that immobile position. She scored higher than I did.
Irish pub and Harley bar, Smithsonian museum and chainsaw artists, river walk and fish fry Friday, that's my Iowa. It's not as weird as Texas, but it will do.
posted by Margo at 12:16 PM
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