After moving to the Midwest in 2005, we both wondered how long it would be until we felt like outsiders. We wondered when the moment would hit us that we had cultural differences from, seemingly, everyone around us.
It turned out to be the first day. A woman in line behind us at the grocery store did something unheard of in our native New Jersey and latest home in Maryland: she struck up a conversation with a stranger. Usually, especially in Jersey, when a stranger starts talking to you, it’s a bad sign. And frequently it means that that person has a few screws loose. She turned to us and said, in a strangely happy and excited tone, “I just couldn’t find any popsicle sticks.”
I responded with an East Coast shrug, mean to ward off strangers by connotating my overall indifference to her plight. Usually doing so is a defense mechanism for when the person – eventually – goes bat sh*t crazy on you. Meaning, if you show them you don’t care, you can much more easily back away.
But she continued. After reminding us that the white bread we bought for a specific purpose (grilled cheese on wheat just doesn’t do it for us), she couldn’t help share that this year instead of giving candy to the trick-or-treaters on Halloween, she would give away pencils.
Pencils.
I bet she’s not the most popular house on the block with the neighborhood kids. But in the end, I don’t think she was crazy. She was just very friendly. Very… Midwestern.
And thus, we were introduced to Midwestern culture. A kind of culture where you can talk to anyone for any amount of time about any subject – and it will probably be all okay in the end. No need to get ready to jump into your fake Bruce Lee pose, unlike if you were in New York, your immediate safety is not in threat by a conversation with a stranger.
So now that we’ve adjusted to Midwest culture, what would it be like for two liberal, gay, white, men, from the northeast, and a gay-married couple to travel to a state that is both southern and Midwestern?
First, I should say that overall our experience in St. Louis was fantastic. Everyone we met was welcoming and kind. We did not directly experience any outward hatred, judgement, or prejudice. In fact, St. Louis seemed to be a rather open city, especially to LGBT individuals and, from what we hear, especially so relative to the surrounding counties and countryside.
There was one moment, however, where you could still see the institutions of yesteryear in today’s times. In St. Louis, it is commonplace to have gated neighborhoods. You can easily spot these sections of town when you see a street closed off with barricades.
We drove into one of these neighborhoods just to drive by some of the mansions. Mainly to gawk. Actually, only to gawk. We came through the entrance, which had no markings of privacy or private property – including no “no trespassing” signs. Just barracades moved off to the side as though they were waiting for some state emergency to keep the zombies out.
“This is very old money,” said our friend Rumi; who sat in the driver’s seat after expressing an intererst in driving our Element. We saw the stately mansions, with their manicured lawns, and more rooms than any individual or family really knows what to do with.
And then we saw the flashing lights behind us. We were being pulled over by the neighborhood’s private police. And he was armed.
He questioned why we were in the neighborhood and, in the kind of tone that only police officers can get, told us that we were trespassing on private property. We will leave immediately. We needed to turn around right now and leave immediately.
I don’t know what bothers me so much about this experience. In the end, no one got arrested. No one got called any names. I suppose it was that I didn’t like the way the officer spoke to my friend, the only person of color in the car. But I think it was also the sense of entitlement. The sense that we were trespassing on private property that really was like any other street. Or, very frankly, the “private” streets that primarily housed white people living in their mansions and are protected from people who may look differently than them by armed guards .
I know that is probably prejudiced of me to assume all of the above. It is. But it is also true that unfortunately history is on my side.
Now mind you, I’ve experienced “neo-segregation” before. I grew up in a very racially diverse town of Montclair, New Jersey, but it was also economically segregated and somewhat racially as well. The public schools I went to looked like some kind of version of Sesame Street. My high school was well attended by nearly every race, creed, orientation, ability, etc. But yet, walk into the cafeteria at lunchtime and you could quickly see the manifestation of people sitting with people who are just like themselves.
Segregation knows no boundaries and all you have to do is live in Baltimore for a short time to directly experience urban segregation. Marc and I helped to revitalize a neighborhood, Mt. Vernon, only to see it gradually become more and more white. And more and more boring, in our eyes.
And do I need to tell you about the history of Chicago? To gloss over the entire subject, let’s just say that the Cubs-Sox division in this city is a stark reminder of how this city naturally separates itself into enclaves.
I need to be clear that I understand that I’m probably not being fair to that officer and to St. Louis. But every now and then, you can get a glimpse of the history of our country in modern times.
But I contrast that with our experience at dinner that very night. We were invited to Rumi’s brother’s home to help celebrate Rumi’s nephew’s graduation from high school. It was great to meet part of the family of one of our great friends. Rumi and his brother emigrated to the U.S. from Bangladesh. At the dinner party, we met a number of other people who became family friends after doing the same thing and found a sense of community with each other.
After telling the story of our experience in the exclusive part of town, I was met with nods of understanding. And then I was told that a few years ago a number of art students set up non-violent protests about these “private” neighborhoods. They set up barricades to the barricades, artistically decorated totem poles that drew the attention of passerbys and, eventually, the media to the purpose and modernity of these private neighborhoods.
But it was at this party that I truly saw the spirit of St. Louis. Two queer men, one of them Jewish, were openly welcomed into the home of a Muslim family and were embraced with the welcomeness that every guest should experience. And it was then that I felt that no matter the history of our country and of Missouri, maybe the future didn’t need to feel so dark. And that maybe, just maybe, if you feel out of place, you can surround yourself with people who understand and welcome you to a place where you’re different, but also just like everyone else.
