A Serious Rant.
I live in a town called Tupelo, Mississippi. The big claim-to-fame of the area is that Elvis Presley was born here, about five miles down the road from my home, in (something like) a 10x15 shack. When Elvis left town for bigger and better things, Tupelo latched onto his fame like a vice grip, knowing that he was the only thing that would ever keep it on the map. After all, the only things this town has to offer are a few very trashy bars, two tiny malls and a convention center that hosts acts like Cheap Trick and the Stars Over Mississippi Country Music Tour. Oh, and did I mention the several dozen Baptist churches?
Of course, like any small town, Tupelo has its "charm" and a select few "worthwhile" things to pass the time. There are a few decent thrift stores, if you can tolerate the condescending stares when you are asked where you bought some item or another. There's a drag show once a week, again, if you can tolerate the closed-minded Bible thumpers and their criticism. There is a microscopic art gallery that features an annual art festival. There are a couple of parks and endless backroads on which to get lost and think. There are a fuckload of hippies (or at least as "hippie" as they can get driving the Camry their parents paid for), and they, at least, can usually direct you to out-of-the-way locations where there is a gathering being held. There is even a small punk scene, complete will a small skate park and occasional concerts to match.
All in all, I've been dealing with this place for thirteen years. I've never had any intention of staying here forever. I'd never intended on staying this long, but for one reason or another, I've wound up twenty-two and still here. I hate it, definitely. What intelligent person in their right mind wouldn't? All the wrong things are important to people here. It is customary in Tupelo to suppress any hint of individuality, even going so far as to expel student who dyed their hair or wore unusual make-up. If you come into this town speaking proper English or using proper grammar, you will be mocked relentlessly and called a "damn Yankee" with disgust. The entire population of this town, some 35,000 people, expect more out of high school football than high school academics - and they are happy when that's exactly what they get. The arts are a joke, as well. You can be kicked out of any program in the arts for making a C - but you can bet that the quarterback at THS has about a D average. All these things disgust me...and then, there's the matter of Steve-O.
Stephen "Steve-O" Baldwyn was one of my best friends, like a brother. He was killed in Iraq (see previous blog) last week. Once we got the news, our lives (the lives of seven or eight of his very closest friends) were tipped upside down and we've been riding turbulent seas since. Stephen's funeral was Tuesday, things have begun to settle down, again. We're regaining some semblance of what we felt like two weeks ago, though nothing remains of the people we were. This area, no matter how much I've hated it, used to seem like home to me. Everywhere I looked, I used to feel comfort and stability in this void of boredom that is Mississippi. I used to feel like I had a place to fall if things were ever rocky...but now, when I look around I see a thousand things that remind me of my brother that I will never, ever see again. This place alienates me. Memories stare out at me, taunting me from every building and the alleys in-between.
If we are only allotted a blink of an eye here on Earth, why are so many of us wasting it by allowing ourselves to rot away in small town America? No one, and I mean NO ONE can ever reach their potential in a place like this, a place that mocks everything that makes a person worthwhile everywhere else in the world. We all had dreams once, of people we wanted to be and places we wanted to live. We all wanted something more than this. I suppose, in all actuality, this realization was Stephen's final gift to me, the rekindled desire to live my life the way I always dreamed I would. I detest the fact that I had to lose someone so wonderful for these things to dawn on me, but then, that's kind of just Steve-O, in his funny, selfless way. I guess you would have to had known him. He changed my life.
So, I suppose this is my proclamation to myself, witnessed by the blog reading public, to cease being less than I am capable of. On a personal note, to anyone reading, might I suggest trying it our yourselves. It's liberating, really. I think you would all enjoy it.
*nod*
So, that's about all, then.
<3
a.
Of course, like any small town, Tupelo has its "charm" and a select few "worthwhile" things to pass the time. There are a few decent thrift stores, if you can tolerate the condescending stares when you are asked where you bought some item or another. There's a drag show once a week, again, if you can tolerate the closed-minded Bible thumpers and their criticism. There is a microscopic art gallery that features an annual art festival. There are a couple of parks and endless backroads on which to get lost and think. There are a fuckload of hippies (or at least as "hippie" as they can get driving the Camry their parents paid for), and they, at least, can usually direct you to out-of-the-way locations where there is a gathering being held. There is even a small punk scene, complete will a small skate park and occasional concerts to match.
All in all, I've been dealing with this place for thirteen years. I've never had any intention of staying here forever. I'd never intended on staying this long, but for one reason or another, I've wound up twenty-two and still here. I hate it, definitely. What intelligent person in their right mind wouldn't? All the wrong things are important to people here. It is customary in Tupelo to suppress any hint of individuality, even going so far as to expel student who dyed their hair or wore unusual make-up. If you come into this town speaking proper English or using proper grammar, you will be mocked relentlessly and called a "damn Yankee" with disgust. The entire population of this town, some 35,000 people, expect more out of high school football than high school academics - and they are happy when that's exactly what they get. The arts are a joke, as well. You can be kicked out of any program in the arts for making a C - but you can bet that the quarterback at THS has about a D average. All these things disgust me...and then, there's the matter of Steve-O.
Stephen "Steve-O" Baldwyn was one of my best friends, like a brother. He was killed in Iraq (see previous blog) last week. Once we got the news, our lives (the lives of seven or eight of his very closest friends) were tipped upside down and we've been riding turbulent seas since. Stephen's funeral was Tuesday, things have begun to settle down, again. We're regaining some semblance of what we felt like two weeks ago, though nothing remains of the people we were. This area, no matter how much I've hated it, used to seem like home to me. Everywhere I looked, I used to feel comfort and stability in this void of boredom that is Mississippi. I used to feel like I had a place to fall if things were ever rocky...but now, when I look around I see a thousand things that remind me of my brother that I will never, ever see again. This place alienates me. Memories stare out at me, taunting me from every building and the alleys in-between.
If we are only allotted a blink of an eye here on Earth, why are so many of us wasting it by allowing ourselves to rot away in small town America? No one, and I mean NO ONE can ever reach their potential in a place like this, a place that mocks everything that makes a person worthwhile everywhere else in the world. We all had dreams once, of people we wanted to be and places we wanted to live. We all wanted something more than this. I suppose, in all actuality, this realization was Stephen's final gift to me, the rekindled desire to live my life the way I always dreamed I would. I detest the fact that I had to lose someone so wonderful for these things to dawn on me, but then, that's kind of just Steve-O, in his funny, selfless way. I guess you would have to had known him. He changed my life.
So, I suppose this is my proclamation to myself, witnessed by the blog reading public, to cease being less than I am capable of. On a personal note, to anyone reading, might I suggest trying it our yourselves. It's liberating, really. I think you would all enjoy it.
*nod*
So, that's about all, then.
<3
a.