People typically know that I’m from the Midwest before I open my mouth. “You just look like it,” I’ve been told, more than once. And when I do open my mouth, even if my “looks” didn’t out me — my accent certainly does. (And if I drink, I have to forget any hopes of blending in, because my accent only gets stronger with every passing beer.)
“I’m going to call you Wisconsin,” one particularly discerning man told me in Salem, Indiana. And so he did.
“Say bags,” his brother said. [In my experience, this request is interchangeable with dragon, or egg, or anything with the “ehh” sound.]
For the most part, I admittedly adore this attention and welcome any opportunity to talk about my home state. It’s why I’ve packed more Wisconsin sports gear than I’ve ever worn in my life — the state pride is REAL (and it’s unlike most other states, I’ve realized). It’s a great conversation starter, getting the ball rolling before I open my mouth.
Building connections has been the true highlight of my time on the road. However momentary they may seem, the kindness of strangers and generosity of people I meet have stuck with me long beyond our interactions — proving to be the most unlikely, yet valued, teachers in this journey.
So as I approached the Northeast, a peach-sized pit grew in my stomach. People there are mean, I was told. They’re cold, unfriendly and skeptical of strangers, they said. Getting people to talk to you will be HARD.
As my nerves compounded, my expectations hit an all time low. After all, interviewing and connecting is regularly challenging, even in the friendly Midwest. And approaching people who may not be as open to strangers? That sounds like a nightmare, even as extroverted and confident as I’ve grown to be.
When I made it into New York, I waited with bated breath for the chill of the east. Surprisingly, it was more of a September breeze. New Yorkers are brisk in an unwitting way — seemingly not inclined to see or reach out to strangers — but their abrupt nature never felt maniacal.
It’ll happen upstate, the voice in my head nagged. But as I drove through the October leaves, people fell over themselves to welcome me into their neck of the woods.
It’ll happen in Vermont, the voice reasoned. But in Vermont, I was met with scenery — and kind strangers — who could’ve easily teleported to Wisconsin and everyone would be none the wiser.
Ok, it’ll be Maine. I met a man who is as passionate about the same storytelling I am and a lobsterman who agreed to bring me on his boat after only knowing me for four hours. Fine, New Hampshire. Instead, I met a couple who welcomed me into their home without knowing who I was, starting with an interview which lingered into a long discussion about politics and an incredible dinner. I walked away feeling like I’d found a second set of parents.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop, I started wondered — would it ever, really?
And then, there was Massachusetts. I first encountered that forewarned breeze in a bar in western Mass, the kind of place where I typically gather the most useful background information about a new stop on the road. Instead, people actively talked around me or averted their eyes, and I thought, oh, here we go.
It continued over the next few days, making it difficult to not take the icy chill personally. As I sat in at a cozy wooden bar, I watched people talk all around me, trying to find my way in. I’m not from here, I wanted to scream, standing up on my bar seat. Please pay attention to me.
And then, that small nagging voice whispered something entirely contradictory to the beating refrain over the past few weeks — why don’t you say something instead?
So I looked at the man next to me, sipping his double and picking at a chicken wrap.
“Hey,” I said, cautiously. “Are you from around here?”
“Hey there,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, born and raised. Are you?”
“Nah,” I shook my head. “Just visiting. Mind if I ask you about the area?”
He agreed, and our conversation was short — but it was pleasant. When it ended, I tried again, another woman who was playing pool with a guy at the other end of of the bar. And the same thing — short, but pleasant.
I realized that it’s not necessarily that East Coasters are mean. They’re just…WORD. There’s no inherent pressure to perform, no Midwest nice or Southern hospitality and once again, I’ve had to check my expectations for the sake of reality.
No more waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Because people on the East Coast? They are kind. (Just maybe not in a roll out the welcome mat kind of way.) Like the woman who gave up her seat on the T for a single dad and his son. Or the group of friends who squished together to share a table with us for bar trivia.
Just like people in the Midwest are kind. And they’re kind in the South, and in the West, and all around the world because this characteristic doesn’t care where you were born. It may surface in different ways — no one in Vermont, for instance, showed any concern for where I was sleeping, while my safety became a consistent topic of discussion whilst in West Virginia — but they are simply people, wherever I go, and it has more to do with inherent personality than anything else.
Once the ice is broken, every East Coast dweller I’ve met continues to be perfectly lovely — helpful and open to chatting. So I’m going to keep on being me (greeting people on the street, making small talk with baristas, holding impromptu silly face contests with kids on the subway) and accept that this would be me regardless, even if I wasn’t from Wisconsin at all.
