Image by Clover_1 via Flickr
I’ve long held the opinion that people, upon moving, should immerse themselves in the culture of their locale, rather than alter it to suit themselves with regard to their own familiarities.
When my family moved to Pollock Pines, California back in the early 1980’s, I noticed that people displayed “Stomp Out Flatlanders” bumper stickers on their trucks. This, of course, begged the question: Exactly what is a Flatlander? Is a Flatlander a sub-species of homo sapiens with distinct, categorizable quirks and patterns? Or is a Flatlander somebody unfamiliar that you can’t get a beat on, who therefore poses an unspoken threat?
I believe the definition is closer to the former. Flatlanderhood isn’t comprised of any set number of qualities, but if one should possess certain qualities, one is most definitely a Flatlander.
Qualities that put one in the Flatlander category back in in 1981:
Metrosexual – We didn’t have a word for it back then, but we knew it when we saw it.
Inappropriate Garb – Keds in a snowstorm, rather than moon boots.
Weird Car - And by weird I mean anything other than Ford or Chevy.
Classical Music - Are you kiddin’? If it don’t got a fiddle they’re gonna kick ya in the hey diddle diddle.
Keeping to Yourself - You think you’re too good for us?
Excessive Friendliness - What do you want from us? Go away!
Overt Displays of Happiness – Get a real job! Get your hands dirty!
Sugarloaf – Thinking it is a Little Debbie product rather than a camp for kids.
Paying for a Cord of Wood – Git yer a*s out there and chop you some, sissy!
I could go on. But I won’t. Because I’m starting to recognize myself.
I AM NOW THE FLATLANDER.
I’m new to the Dallas, Texas area and painfully out of the loop. I don’t know how people here spend their weekends. I don’t understand why there is a dance studio on every block, or why these people are so into donuts. They sell Mai Tai mix and Margarita salt in the aisle next to the milk, but you have to drive to a different county to procure a bottle of liquor.
Most homes don’t have driveways in the front, but alleys in the back where you can access your garage. I do not understand the protocol associated with these alleyways. What do you do if you meet another car? Drive backwards for half a block? And why do you have to do it? Why don’t they do it? What if you both do it at the same time, then stop and drive forward at the same time until you end up right back where you started?
Contrary to the general and uninformed opinion most native Californians have of Texans, these folks have really nice hair. Straight hair. Shiny hair. They’re very well groomed – better groomed, in fact, than yours truly. Maybe a little too well-groomed. Appearances are important here, just as important as they are in most of California.
In Plano, people don’t wear pajamas to Blockbuster the way they did in Yucca Valley, CA. They wear full makeup and nice boots. They’re polite. If you reach for the same movie, they say things like, “Oh no, please – you take it!”, but their smiles don’t always meet their eyes.
Costco is a popular meeting place around lunch time. As in California, Texans linger around the free sample area. There are two apparent varieties – hawks and chickens. The hawks wait until the free sample hostess is involved in a conversation with somebody else, then swoop by with their cart, snag the little cup with the steak chili, eyes widening with the thrill of it, then soar on out of there, never stopping, never having missed a beat.
Chickens approach slowly and make an attempt to determine their appropriate place in line, then fill it. They smile at the people around them, and rub their hands together in anticipation. They’ll tell you what their huband or wife thinks of this brand of chili because, as luck would have it, they’ve been purchasing it regularly for the last six months.
They’ll smile at your baby girl and try to make you feel better by admitting that their daughter didn’t have much hair at that age either, and that her lack of hair is probably an indication of future curliness. It just gets stuck, you see, until it grows strong enough to corkscrew its way out. They’ll act it out for you.
You don’t know if they’re wearing a wig or if that’s their real hair. This holds true no matter the age or gender of the chicken. You try not to stare at the hair and fail, but the chicken doesn’t seem to mind. They pat you on the arm and smile and wink at you.
Chickens don’t care that you’re different. A chicken will take you in even if you are a stinkin’ ole Flatlander.
Someday, I want to be a chicken too.
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