Where Ya’ll From, B*tch?

Stop trying to relate to me by making fun of where I grew up.

“I went to Iowa to campaign for Hillary. They ate a lot of fried pork sandwiches. Do you eat those?” Alex sneered at me over an otherwise lovely Shabbat dinner. His wife, aware of the not-so-subtle jab, elbowed him discreetly under the table.

I was surprised by his tone, but passive-aggressive (outright insulting?) comments about my being from Iowa are nothing new. Having lived in Chicago, D.C., New York City, and now Paris, I’m used to “tolerant,” open-minded people who are tolerant of everything, except what they deem flyover country.

I get it. I used to despise where I came from too. And to a degree, I had good reason. During my elementary school years, my small-town school was dominated by jocks, some of whom held racist and bigoted views about anyone who wasn’t white, Christian, and male. I despised them, and I don’t think they liked me much either. But there were also some wonderful people. First, my family. And second, our family friends with whom we are still close to this day.

But over the past few decades (wow, am I that old?), I’ve come to see that a narrow-minded, bigoted worldview isn’t confined to small-town America. It exists in the minds of people who can’t be bothered to appreciate, or at the very least, respect, those who see the world differently from them.

Alex’s comment wasn’t an isolated incident. When I lived in New York, I matched with a guy on Bumble (a Hamilton College grad, no less), and when I mentioned that I grew up on a farm, he asked, “The factory kind with food on conveyor belts?” The answer is no, but even if it weren’t, what kind of classist jerk asks something like that? The issues with American farming can be traced to Big Ag, subsidies, lobbying, and broader problems in our food production system. And even if he takes issue with that, using me as the nearest punching bag is just nasty.

I was once part of a women’s meetup group. When I shared a bit about my background, the leader responded in amazement, “Iowa? Wow. And you’re HERE [in Paris]? Don’t people there all live in trailers?” I interrupted: “My parents live on a beautiful farm with an orchard, garden, and swimming pool.” But she continued: “Well, it’s just that I can’t believe someone from IOWA would live here.” I eventually left the group.

More recently, I met a woman, Jane (not her real name), who said, “When I first arrived in Paris and went to this group’s meetup, I thought everyone looked like they were from the Midwest and shopped at Wal-Mart.” I replied, “I’m from the Midwest, but my family prefers Target.” She didn’t apologize. She just said, “Well, you know what I mean.” No, Jane, I don’t. Why don’t you explain it?

It’s strange to make assumptions about people based solely on where they’re from. Some assumptions might be accurate to a degree. Iowa isn’t exactly known for fashion, opera, or high culture. But let’s be honest: is Long Island or the northern suburbs of Chicago?

The point here isn’t to rehash old grievances, but to highlight the rudeness that our supposedly enlightened, educated, cosmopolitan elites feel comfortable expressing. These comments don’t hurt. But it’s baffling that people assume their prejudice and condescension will land on understanding ears.

I’m fortunate to have grown up where I did. In some ways, being a fish out of water among the blonde-haired, blue-eyed athletes gave me empathy for others who feel out of place.

I’ve been in Paris for nearly three years now, still adjusting to a new culture, language, and home. But I’m proud to bring with me the humility, work ethic, and empathy I gained growing up in Iowa, and, I hope, a strong reluctance to judge people based on where they’re from. If anything, I have learned to brush it off with humor.

There’s an old joke: A woman from Iowa is on a flight and turns to the woman next to her. “I’m from Iowa. Where are you from?” The woman, in her best mid-Atlantic accent, replies, “Where I’m from, we know not to end sentences with a preposition.” The Iowa woman responds, “Excuse me. Where are you from, bitch?”

Photo taken at my white trash MAGAT childhood home.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment, but be civil.

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