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Yes, that’s right. I’m from Massachusetts. While I’m not a big sports fan, I love the Red Sox and the Patriots. I like Boston a lot but also respect Providence because I think it’s quaint.
When I want to take a beach vacation, I go to “the Island” or “the Vineyard” or “the Cape.” I recognize Route 495 as both an important road and the universal dividing line for every weather event since the highway’s creation. I’m one of those East Coast liberals – well, maybe a little more than just that – and would probably vote for Ted Kennedy even if he was dead.
I’ve heard it all before, pretty much every time I meet a new person.
“Hi, I’m Jeff.”
“Cool, where ya from?”
“Massachusetts.”
“[Gasp] Oh, Masshole! HA! LOSER!”
Yes, thank you, I realize that. I don’t get mad, though; I can understand why people don’t like Massachusetts. We are generally loud and can be pretty mean. We’re New Yorkers without the inch-deep layer of glitter. But it’s harder to reconcile when I meet a new person with my friend Karl, who’s from Vermont.
“Hi, I’m Jeff and this is Karl. He’s from Vermont.”
“Oh cool, Vermont! You guys have like syrup and ice cream and stuff. That’s so cool! And where are you from?”
“Massachusetts.”
“Ew.”
Not wanting to deal with the negative stigma of everything that has to do with central New England, I’ve actually started claiming to be a Mainer. When I go home and people make fun of my beard, I say, “Hey, I’m from Maine. Everyone has a beard, even children!” When I come out with that gem, everyone leaves me alone and is left with the impression that I’ve been busy all day, chopping down trees and intimidating the moose that run wild through the streets of Bangor. In fact, being from Maine is fairly similar to being from Vermont; everyone respects you and thinks that you grew up in a tree fort. If you’re from Massachusetts, people assume that you have personally overseen the marriage of a gay couple and, for some reason, that’s a problem.
There are other benefits to being a Mainer as well. For instance, I don’t drive like an idiot anymore. Or rather, I drive like a different kind of idiot. I’ve noticed how nice the highway is to drive on at 45 mph and that braking on turns is actually helpful to the steering process. Also, the attitude of people in Maine is admirable. Less rushed than my southern brethren, Mainers consider a neighbor someone who lives up to an hour away, perhaps more, and living in “Vacationland” is less a place than a state of mind.
Of course, I would never forget the lessons I learned from the Bay State. I can still drive like Shakira being chased by a chiropractor yelling, “No! Stop doing that! You’re going to melt your own pelvis!” I will never forget that Maine once “belonged” to Massachusetts, despite Mainers’ unwillingness to admit it – it’s true! And really, there are some nice, Maine-esque places in Massachusetts. Have you seen the western half? It’s quite pleasant, I promise.
Still, after two and a half years in Maine, I’ll admit that this is probably the way life should be. I’ll never be able to reconcile my 18 years in Massachusetts, but hey, at least I’m not Canadian, eh?
Jeffrey Hake is trading his chowdah and cranberries for whoopie pies and Moxie.
