If You Can Drink Tap Water and Breathe the Air...

I am from Minnesota. Yeah, that’s right. I was playing hockey by the time I was four, I say “pop” instead of “soda,” and I still can’t pronounce words with long “o” sounds in them without making everyone around me giggle. Seriously, make me say “boat” sometime. The lulz will never cease. I can hear you now: “But Elana, you’re so urbane and cultured. We never would have guessed.” Okay, so maybe it’s more like, “Look, whoever you are, we’ve never noticed you before, so you must not be that weird.” Whatev. Both prove the point which I am meandering towards (patience is a virtue, or something). I am not Laura Ingalls, I did not grow up on a farm. I live in a (gasp) real city, with real diversity and culture. Take note, Cornellian upstate New Yorkers- if one more person from Buffalo or Rochester asks me how many cows my family owns, I will be forced to go off on an ill-advised rant about the merits of a town where the biggest attraction is a Wegman’s. I’m not saying, I’m just saying.

Yes, I’m sipping on that haterade. Partially because I really do love Minneapolis (and my very own St. Paul, the oft- overlooked twin, the Ashley, if you will, to the bigger city’s Mary-Kate), but also because I found myself buying into some of the regionalism I encountered here in Ivory Tower world. Much like the “fat kid using self-deprecating humor to hide his/her pain” trope seen in, oh, every teen dramedy ever, I began to say some downright dismissive things about the homeland. Hey, if I say it, at least it’s a loving jab, right? So I should probably clear a few things up. I do not live in the middle of nowhere, Minnesota and North Dakota are, in fact, not the same thing (although I do have reciprocity at all Wisconsin public universities, so you know, there’s that). I do not live in an igloo, nor have I ever seen a polar bear. I am not the only Jew in Minnesota, I mean, my mom and brother live here too! (Whew, I slay me). I am, however, exactly fifty percent Scandinavian, and I really did have a great-grandpa named Karl. With a K.

“What is she rambling on about?” See, you doubted me before, but I really am psychic. I guess what I am trying to say is, I am sick of being embarrassed about where I come from. Which is more my problem than anyone else’s, when you think about it, but give a girl a soap box, and all of that. I realized that in perpetuating these stereotypes and mistruths about the Land o’ Lakes, the only person I was really hurting was me (melodramatic, I know. To quote X-Pac, of WWF fame, aka The Greatest Actor of Our Time, “suck it”). Truth time: most of you probably won’t ever set foot in my fine state. You don’t know anything about our progressive political environment (the only state not to go for Reagan either time! Also, um, hello, AL FRANKEN), or the fact that the metro area (St. Paul/Minneapolis, for the uninitiated) has the most theaters per capita of anywhere in the country (take that, NYC), or that the music scene is amazing (The Replacements, Husker Du, Rhymesayers, shall I go on?). So if I tell you that Minneapolis is boring and milquetoast-y and there’s nothing to do and blah blah blah, you’ll believe me. And that, my friends, just ain’t cool.

I am proud of where I’m from. And you should be too. That is, where you’re from, not my hometown (although if you really want to, I’m down. Whatever floats your boat, do what you love, this is a judgment free zone, etc). I retract my Wegman’s comment, and not just because I want you all to like me. Every community has eccentricities and cool stuff to do, not just cities. My all time favorite place in the world is about halfway between Madison and Chicago, deep in the wilds of Wisconsin. Do you know Taliesin, Frank Lloyd Wright’s house? Yeah, well, I’m not talking about that. About fifteen minutes away from that shack is a real piece of resplendent architectural wonderment. The House on the Rock is filled with theme rooms and carousels and scrimshaw and all manners of kitsch. Alex Jordan, the owner, decided that he was going to be the next F.Ll.W, so he designed his house and filled it to the brim with junk. It is, in a word, amazing.

All I’m saying is, don’t pretend to hate where you’re from just because it’s in flyover country (unless, of course, you really do hate it. Then it’s all good). Self-righteousness managed! Word is bond, Seacrest out.