Held in contempt

The last bastion of snoot and of snark must be the Midwest.

Merely the name for a black person has undergone upheaval in the past decades; stoop to condescension, and you could have a fight — or worse, a lawsuit — on your hands ... very possibly from a white person. The nation finally seems to be coming around on the LGBTQ community and, in some instances, perhaps even overcompensating. (Does anyone actually find Ellen DeGeneres funny?) For a people with such a rich history of humor, the Jews have a remarkable lack of the ability to take a joke. (It must be our neuroticism.) Fat jokes seem to be going out of vogue, though I can't tell whether it's because there are too many targets to take offense or because, when they become so ubiquitous, the jokes lose their edge and appeal. The tide also seems to be turning on hurtful remarks directed toward Mexicans and Latinos more generally, with the most disparaging reserved, apparently, for Mexican comedians. (Has self loathing ever been more profitable?)

It remains the norm, however, to regard the landlocked states as having nothing to offer — culturally, intellectually, whatever.

***

I must admit that I have a somewhat conflicted relationship with my home state of Missouri — which, despite the occasional claim of its being a member of the South or some such nonsense, could not be any more a part of the Midwest.

For the greater part of my adolescence, I hated Missouri. I hated St. Louis. In retrospect, this was probably teen angst, but at the time, I was very much convinced that I had been cursed to live in the armpit of the Earth (as my uncle once said).

It was not until I began to live elsewhere — to say travel wouldn't be precise, as I had visited many other states and countries by that point — that my feelings started to change, first on a city level (during my time at college), then on a national level (during my time in China and, to a lesser extent, in Korea) and finally on a state or regional level (during my time in New York). This was equally an intellectual and emotion maturation, the wisdom of experience, a more complete comprehension (and chance at comparison) and, importantly, a desire to stand up for myself, for lack of a better descriptor.

For once I had moved to the East Coast, and perhaps even before, I found a shocking level of ignorance about the Midwest and, frankly, disdain.

I don't find the haughtiness particularly surprising or difficult to explain, between the urban metropolises, the media outlets, the centers of culture (perceived as these may be) and a general desire among humans, regardless of their place of birth or hometown, to hold themselves in higher esteem than they do their peers, to assume themselves better than the unknown and to find comfort in (and often satisfy themselves with) the familiar. It's often frustrating, but it's not surprising.

I can't explain, however, the focus from both coasts on the Midwest region (versus, perhaps, the South or the Southwest or the Rockies or even the Northwest). One could argue that it's a result of stereotypical images perpetuated in the media — but then, those images had to spring from somewhere, did they not? Something bred the image of the simpleton on his John Deere, and something kept it going even after the similarly stereotypical images of the South or, perhaps, the Appalachians (though I know that area still has its insecurities).

Nor can I truly explain, as I began to allude to above, the persistence with which this kind of ignorance exists. Beyond a shocking inability of New Yorkers to even point to my home state on a map, there is a certain one-hand-clapping quality here: If an East Coaster puts down Midwesterners when some may be around, does it elicit a retort? The answer is not only no — it may prompt a round of Midwest bashing.

Since my move, I've been bothered by comments about the sports of the Midwest (my hometown Cardinals have the second most championships of any major league team), the cuisine of the Midwest (the birthplace of the ice cream cone, as a quick counter), the culture of the Midwest (a hotbed for movements like ragtime and jazz), the pastimes of the Midwest (cow tipping? really?). But I think I've been bothered even more so by the way those from the Midwest (or, perhaps more likely, formerly of the Midwest) talk about their region, or at least tacitly agree with the East Coast assessment. You'd never know the multitude of actors, musicians, athletes and other influential figures from the Midwest because the impression they often give in interviews is that they couldn't get out fast enough. In some sense it gives credence to the stereotypes and normalizes that kind of attitude, but it's also indicative of the deep insecurities of the entire region.

The easiest place to grow up is on the East (or West) Coast, where you have a sense of entitlement instilled, along with blissful ignorance, and you can go your entire life without anyone ever correcting you. It's much more difficult to be from Missouri, where you have a longstanding memory of self doubt.

Midwesterners don't stand up for themselves on the Coast because they don't know how and, what's more, they at some level agree with the pretension. Even those who have a decent opinion of their own home states find fault in those surrounding them. For a brief example, my uncle proclaims that Iowa stands for "Idiots Out Walking Around." I myself make the case that there are two Missouris: Missour-ee, mostly referring to St. Louis and Kansas City, i.e., cities that Coasters would recognize as civilization; and Missour-ah, the rest of the state, something resembling "Green Acres" or a Grant Wood painting.

***

This is not a call for Midwesterners to band together. I don't know if we can all just get along; honestly, I don't care much. There is some question, though, as to how to solve this latent vulnerability.

Since my move (a phrase I've found myself saying a lot as a meaningful demarcation, which perhaps says more than the rest of this essay), I've found myself trying to stand up for myself and my state. When talking with some clearly naive or shallow individual, I might point out that I excelled in school or that I attended the best college program in my field or that I was extended at my internship at one of the most respected newspapers in the world. I might mention my travels around the world or my developing palate or my love of dying art forms like opera and jazz and classical music. I might suggest that I was a competent musician myself or that I have been professionally published. I might bring up the books I've read or the museums I've visited or some other fact that sounds more like it belongs in a game of Trivial Pursuit or on a résumé than in casual conversation. Or I might just say, as I often have, that I grew up in a city of nearly three million people.

The other person will nod, maybe smile, maybe shake his or her head. He'll believe me, or he won't.

But, once I've walked away and taken up some other task, once that person has completely forgotten about our conversation, once I've gotten to my new home and begun to get ready to turn in for the night, I'll be left with the thought that the act of responding said more than my response ever could and the feeling that I wasn't trying to prove anything to those around me so much as I was trying to prove something to myself.