One of these things is not like the other
I used to love that game ‘One of these things is not like the other.’ I was always so pleased I could pick out the thing that didn’t look like the others. At the time, I wasn’t one hundred percent aware that no matter were I was, I was going to be the thing that didn’t look like the others but I learned that as I grew. A while ago, my childhood friend came to Nashville on a twenty-four hour visit. I took her, like I take all tourists new to Nashville, downtown to Nash Vegas. A strip of four or five blocks filled with clichés of country music honky tonk's and drunken bridesmaids parties, Nash Vegas is a sight to see. We ate in the one non-touristy restaurant I know and then wandered about the strip, dodging large heat saturated groups of out of towners filled with way too much alcohol to be walking about. We took the obligatory photo with Elvis. Strangers accidentally felt us up as we squeezed by, trying to stay on the sidewalk and off the horse and carriage filled street. We wandered into the one Honky Tonk that doesn't make me claustrophobic where we stayed for a song. And there, while listening to a band that was better live than some of the processed crap on the radio, Childhood Friend looked around the room and then leaned over and whispered to me, “Um… everyone looks the same in here.” And they did. All the girls were sporting a pair of cowboy boots, tiny top jeans shorts or tiny skirt and blonde hair and the boys were in a plaid shirt and jeans with embellished pockets, their heads accessorized with a cowboy hat or a trucker hat. I know I’m exaggerating a bit, maybe not everyone was blonde or wore a hat, but the rest was true. The two things that didn’t look like the others in this honky tonk bar in Nash Vegas – well, that would be my little Jewish Childhood Friend and me. Music blasting, crowd moving in a slow two-step, Childhood Friend and I laughed at the circumstance. We were so obviously fish out of water in that Honky Tonk but it wasn’t tragic. We were no longer gripped by the “must fit in” panic that took over us in school. No one was pointing and whispering that our shoes weren’t the right kind of boots or we didn’t have the right hair or jeans. And Childhood Friend and I just made note of the differences we were seeing, went back to listening to music and watching the crowd and let it go. We’ve all evolved, I thought. Childhood Friend and I weren’t trying to be like all the others and the others weren’t trying to make us feel we had to. And then, while we were standing there, a friend of mine sent me a text from Nantucket where she was summering as a nanny. One week in and she’d already been called the N word and the child she was caring for was called a ‘retard. And bam, I was right back in grade school, being asked if I wore clothes when I was in Africa while the kids laughed and pointed at my hair. For so much of my life, I’ve wanted to fit in. I’ve wanted to not be noticed. I’ve wanted to not be different. I’ve tried to be blonde and only turned my hair to an awful straw burnt orange. I’ve tried to be silly and funny when cruel things were said instead of weeping like I was inside. I’ve kept my mouth shut when I knew speaking out would make a wave. I did not want to be different. It’s hard not to be different here in Nashville. We are, Husband and I, always the odd one in the crowd. We do not look like the others here. He’s got his accent and I, apparently, am Robin Roberts. But I have found that being different is a good thing in a place where everyone is rotating and out of town in to follow a dream. Husband and I are remembered. And, it not always just because I look different and he sounds funny. Sometimes it’s because it we are us. Like the dude in the pizza place who knows us as “The Questionnaire and the Scotsman!” This is an unfinished ramble. I don’t have a real point to make here or a real ending. I guess it is good to be different if you are okay with it. If not, your differences make your life and everyone else miserable. There are mean people who can’t handle difference and there are people who celebrate it, honor it even. Don’t be miserable. Life is too short and there is too much to see and do. Babblebabblebabble... Celebrate your weird!
2 Comments
bc
8/19/2014 02:26:35 am
Ramble on. This is a touching post
Reply
ej
8/20/2014 02:58:46 am
Thanks bc!!!
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
Categories
All
|