Up where we belong

“Is this home?”
Belle ~ Beauty and The Beast

I haven’t been very good at feeling at home since we moved to Georgia. I know it’s blunt, but I’m not among southerners, so there you have it. Don’t get me wrong, I love our house. I love my job. But I don’t get a warm fuzzy feeling when I drive into town. Yet anyway. And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this. It’s a feeling I share with many other military spouses. At least the younger, more liberal ones. We may live in this community, but we’re not really a part of it. After all, the choice to come here wasn’t ours to make. It was made for us. And maybe if you end up at a cool base, like say Lackland AFB in San Antonio, or Bolling AFB near Washington DC, feeling a part of the community may not be so hard. But if you’re stuck where we’re at, it’s a whole different ballgame. Sure, as my husband always points out, it could be worse. We could be at McConnell in Kansas, the place where the only elevation comes from highway ramps. Or somewhere up in the Dakotas. But still our town is far from perfect. Or, as I say when I’m in a particular crabby mood, it’s a cultural vortex. I joke to out of town friends that our local residents seem to do nothing but shop for new cars, go to church, frequent gentlemen’s clubs, eat at chains with names that consist of days of the week, and buy stuff at Walmart. It’s depressing.

And of course it doesn’t help that I have a few additional barriers to overcome: I mean, I am definitely different. Not just different than the local women, no, I mean really different. Different to the point where even some military wives will raise their eyebrows. For not only am I a foreigner who talks about far-away places and drives a tiny European-style fuel-efficient car, but I work at a university, one of them scary liberal places. And I’m not something safe like a secretary or an assistant, no, I am a professor. One of those people who liked going to school, and who have a very stubborn mind of their own. Not only that, but I am a liberal who is pro-choice, against the death penalty, believes in universal health care, and who doesn’t believe in dressing up to go to church (although the fact that I do go is, I’m sure, a redeeming factor). And, get this, she speaks up about it too. Wow. The hard part is that at work it’s not much different. There I’m the military lady who uses odd acronyms and talks about her husband’s deployments. Having a military ID makes me as close to the Antichrist as possible in some people’s eyes. Teaching at an HBCU also means I’m one of the few white people around. It’s a great opportunity to learn and grow, but sometimes it’s just plain hard work. After all, I am someone who can’t relate to stories about racism or discrimination, no matter how empathic I may be.

So for the past year or so I have been struggling to fit in. And that brings me to what I really wanted to write about; because there have been three major breakthroughs in the past week. First, there was Zoe’s puppy class. I took our little doggy-dog to her first class this Saturday, and for the first time since I got here, no one asked me anything beyond my name. No one inquired about my job, my husband, or where I was from. They were far more interested in our little mutt and how to get her to stop chewing on everything in sight. We all simply enjoyed ourselves trying to get our dogs to recognize their own names, and "leave" their treats on command. In short, I was elated. I came home, exclaiming to my husband that I finally felt like I belonged somewhere. Even if it was a puppy class in the middle of the local PetSmart. And then on Monday a co-worker and I had a little coming out when we both realized (he is from the north), that we have a hard time feeling accepted down here. It was great to know I found a partner in crime. Now we can be miserable together. And then today, as I was waiting at a light, a semi from the town where I live pulled up next to me. The driver rolled down his window, and after asking if he could merge in front of me since he was in the wrong lane, he said; “I see you’re from *** county too, I figured you would let me, since we both come such a long way.” We exchanged opinions about some of the local news (an accident at a local school), and went on our merry ways. It was great. I had actually been treated as though I belonged somewhere!

So although I’m sure I’ll have lots more to complain about in the coming months, I do see an itty bitty light at the end of the tunnel now. It may take me a while, but I have the feeling I’ll find my niche sooner or later. Now excuse me while I go and celebrate .