Blue in a Red State

This was the first little snippet I had written in years. It reminded me of how much I love writing and was the precedent for taking this class. I would love to hear any suggestions for improvement. It's not even close to being "there" but I'm not quite sure where to start..... the opening is particularly weak.  


          I am a living, breathing Southern-California “valley girl”, born and raised for 28 years in the San Fernando Valley. I have the characteristic blond hair and blue eyes; I love the beach and sushi. Even in my home state of California I thought myself to be a dying breed. After high school most of the people I met came from out of state, seeking the fame, fortune and glamorous life that Hollywood promised to all those that would love her. Waitresses were never waitresses – they were actresses. Customer Service reps were recording artists. And everyone you met had a scandalous celebrity story to tell. California was my home, though - I was no impostor. I was no visiting tourist. I was an insider, allowed to silently smirk at the foolhardy aspirations of these immigrants.

       I have elbowed my way through the squalid and litter-filled streets of Hollywood, stepping on her gum-stained stars past bands of spiky-haired teenage runaways costumed in leather jackets and Doc Martens. I have swaggered through the pristine, palm tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills, Prada bags in tow. I have enjoyed a Shakespearean play on an outdoor stage nestled in the Hollywood Hills, while choirs of California Towhees united in a chipper refrain. I have powwowed to the heavy bongo beats of Venice beach drum circles beside dreadlocked hippies burning woodsy patchouli incense. I have hiked through the Malibu shrubs, inching my way down the coastline just to find a perfectly secluded spot of beach on which to sip a local microbrew on a hot and windy summer day. I grew up tough, for in my neighborhood, amongst such beauty there was also a palpable sense of danger. I have lived by gangs, drug dealers and perverts. When I was 15 a drunken gang member named “T-Wack” found his way into my neighborhood and pointed a silver glock to my head, repeating “I don’t care, I’ll shoot you right now.” Those two minutes were the most terrifying moments of my existence.

            But it was this contrast that I came to love, for it symbolized the irony and hypocrisy embedded in a modern society. The juxtaposition of my surroundings helped to keep me grounded. I went to school with the rich kids and the poor kids. Beautiful art galleries housing expensive masterpieces were plagued with bums. I made great friends with differing racial backgrounds and religious beliefs. I learned very quickly to be tolerant of others and to grow a thick skin. I grew up in a tolerant state where smoking reefer was considered to be healthier than smoking cigarettes. It was a culture all its own: liberal, democratic, and (as Face book categorizes) “spiritual, not religious”. In many of the absurd situations I found myself experiencing, I never felt like an outsider. Like a chameleon, I could always change colors and adapt to my surroundings. Circled by family and friends, I never felt alone.

 

         Three years have passed. Me, my husband and our two children moved to Georgia for a job opportunity we couldn’t refuse. The South: land of peaches, grits, tornadoes, mosquitoes and shrimp. The South: religious, conservative and republican. We knew things would be different, but I don’t think we could fully prepare for the extreme culture shock. We could only hold tight to each other and brace ourselves for the impact. The first thing I missed was the food. No all-natural health food Trader Joes and Whole Foods markets. No Jack-In-The-Box. No authentic Thai food restaurants or half-priced sushi. No Baja-style carne asada dollar tacos. Sure there are restaurants in Georgia, but nothing that feels like…well, home. But those were superficial concerns, I told myself. What really made me feel like an outsider were the differences between the west-coast liberalism and decidedly southern conservatism. And I, once the proud native, can now relate to Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. I find myself in a different place where people call me “Miss April.” I keep looking behind me to see who this “Miss April” is. I can’t seem to escape biscuits – they’re everywhere! I feel eyes boring into my back when I am out with my husband because I am white and he is Puerto Rican. It has taken me some time to understand the southern drawl that many Georgians speak with, and I can’t help wondering to myself if I sound strange to them…do I sound like an outsider? I try to make friends, but casual conversation turns acrid in my mouth when political and religious subjects come up, as they invariably will.
          

          One evening during a camping trip I was sitting around the campfire with some of the scout parents trying to make conversation. The pack leader reaches up to adjust the lantern and I can see a holstered gun on his belt. I asked him if it was loaded. He passionately exclaimed that he was exercising his second amendment right to bear arms and further explained that he had a permit to carry a concealed weapon. This made me extremely nervous around the boys. During that same evening the men were all talking about the Democratic Party and how horrible Obama’s administration was performing. I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer. “I think you should all know that I am a Democrat and I support president Obama. I am in favor of Government oversight because history has shown us that large capitalist corporations will knowingly commit egregious acts that harm others and damage the environment to turn a profit. They cannot be trusted to regulate themselves.” Everyone went stiff. The fire crackled and spit in disdain while the crickets chirped like a group of frantic old gossiping knitters: “Did you hear that?” “Gasp!” “Oh my…”

          This is a very militaristic community and many have families serving in the armed forces. They believe their work is honorable, while I believe it to be ill-conceived. My eyes are flooded by pro-life and anti-gay bumper stickers. I want to trade in the country music and dirty south rap for my old alternative and hip-hop radio stations. I am a blue alien in a red state. Here, life is a steady, methodical and predictable stream. I try to relate, as it is in my nature to adapt to my surroundings, but there are many “laws” here that I will never be able to agree with.

          Yesterday evening, after I had given the kids their baths I caught myself saying: “Y’all need to brush your teeth and get ready for bed.” I stopped dead in my tracks, enough for the kids to notice. My five-year-old cocked her head sideways like a Labrador perking its ears up in anticipation: “What mommy?” I cracked a smile. “Nothing, sweethearts. You two need to brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”

                                                   Perhaps I can learn to love purple.