The Middle

The Missourian writer “Mark Twain,” (or Samuel Clemens), could be easily recognized by admirers on the East Coast by his wardrobe: a bear skin coat and coon cap. Of course, no sane person in Missouri would ever have worn this outfit, but Samuel Clemens embraced the stereotype that the high society readers from New York or Boston held about Westerners. About a hundred years before Twain, Ben Franklin performed the same charade for the Frenchmen who believed all Americans were rugged outdoorsmen.

Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that people in London are surprised I’m not wearing a raccoon on my head, but I have had to come to terms with the fact that a person from the Midwest is held under certain stereotypes.

First of all, if you’re not from America, you’ve probably have never heard of Missouri. That’s why when people ask where I’m from, I say “The States,” and if they ask which one, I say “The one in the middle.” Sometimes people will go so far as to demand the name of my state, and I’ll humor them by saying “Missouri,” to which they will nod knowingly, clearly having no idea which one Missouri is.

I’m not complaining. After all, I know very little of any other area in England other than London, York, and Manchester, and I usually only recognize one or two cities from any other European country. But the fact remains that when you ask a European (or some Americans) where they want to travel when they go to America, they will say “New York City” (not state—many are not aware that there is a state under the same name) or possibly “L. A.” or “Las Vegas.”  I don’t blame any of them. According to Hollywood, these cities are the only places where anything ever happens.

This opinion was held even more strongly by a friend of mine from New York, who when talking about her uncle said, “He moved to Nebraska, so obviously he’s not doing anything with his life.”

I laughed, not because she was kidding or exaggerating, but because she genuinely held this belief. It’s so ingrained into New Yorkers’ psyches that they are in the only important place in America. And no foreigner would argue with them.

In addition to this New Yorker friend, I have a friend from Texas. Despite the fact that they never see eye-to-eye on anything, they are actually very similar in personality. Both are strong-willed, outspoken, intelligent young people who will probably never abandon or change their views of the world. Both were raised in upper-class American homes whose families have instilled in them responsibilities to impact the world they live in. Both believe they come from the best place in America. Both have faced the consequences of expressing their passionate political views on those who feel overwhelmed by such extremes.

Only one of them is expected to wear the modern-day equivalent of a coonskin cap. Because while a New Yorker will feel right at home in the relatively liberal city of London, a Texan might as well be put in a zoo. His conservative opinions are received as offensive, his manners and values are old fashioned, we even call him “Texas” rather than his real name. But I can’t help but laugh when my East Coast friends call him “sheltered,” because they’ve lived in a comfortable bubble just as much as he has—if not more so. Unlike my East Coast friends, Texas has made an effort to seek adventures outside his box while New Yorkers have travelled to another New York with a British accent. I guarantee if any one of my East Coast friends went to Texas they would be just as lost and just as ostracized as a Texan in London. It takes a lot for a person to realize there are parts of the world—even the Western World—that don’t think or act like they do.

Take me for example. Being from the Midwest, I don’t feel at home in London or Texas. I barely feel at home in Missouri (but more of that later). I can’t deal with the cold individualism of London, and I can’t stand the racist and sexist tendencies of Texas.

And I’m filled with a little bit of an inferiority complex because apparently a life in the Midwest is a waste of time. “There’s nothing to do in Missouri,” an East Coast friend of mine pointed out, as we watched the entire second season of Dexter in a dorm room, cooked a grilled cheese and tomato soup dinner, and got a drink at a local pub (the exact same thing I would be doing in Missouri). After living four months in London, I’m not too convinced that there’s much more to do here than in Missouri. There’s a wider variety of things to spend your money on—more musicals, concerts, museums, clubs—but I’ve noticed that the majority of people in London do the same activities they do in Missouri: they drink a lot, do drugs, have sex, watch movies, go to the gym, go to work, study (a lot of times in that order). The musicals, concerts, museums and clubs are occasional. Looked forward to and appreciated, but occasional.

Let me also say that in the same way that my East Coast and Londoner friends think I’m deprived of concerts, museums and clubs, I think they’re deprived of massive humans-vs-zombie games, star tripping, and Steak ‘n Shake. They’ve never fled from an abandoned haunted building lurking right behind the Hancock Fabrics parking lot. They’ve never seen the curvature of the earth by lying upside down on a giant roll of hay. They’ve never sat in a school bus hanging off the side of an old shoe warehouse. They’ve never built a miniature golf course using supplies bought with only ten dollars at Wal-Mart.

Not that I fit into the Midwest. For one thing, people there never seem to leave, making them more determined that their way is the right way than any New Yorker or Texan I’ve met. But at least I know Midwest thinking is not the “right way,” and certainly not the only way. I, like my friend from Texas, am branching out. I also know that I have yet to find a place I feel truly comfortable, which means I have a lot of travels and adventures ahead of me.