It is SO good to be back in New England. And that's saying something given I'm in... Connecticut. Ewwww...
My disdain for Connecticut has never been fair and has really only lent itself to the area known as Fairfield County, aka NYC's Red Headed Stepchild. The rest of Connecticut really is New England and wraps around me like a warm blanket. I spent much of the last 24 hours in and around Mystic, CT, a town that reminds me of why I am so incredibly proud to be from where I am.
I realized this morning I am a child of the sea. Sawing that mer-tail off was quite a bitch. In all seriousness, I am never more comfortable than when the ocean is a feature of the landscape. It's what I grew up with. It's all I know. And I am forever enamoured of towns and cities that live by the work the sea provides them. There's something in the smell of the air, the gray of the buildings, the salty and sweet combination of the people that make me long to return and be native to it once more.
As I chatted up old friends over beers last night, we griped over the difficulty of finding people "like us". Sounds so elitist, doesn't it? But it's hard to sway from that New England character and understand those "from away". We're hearty. It's the best word I can think of. We're also direct, but loyal and wanting everyone to feel at home. We can be overbearing, certainly, and we're always a bit suspect of those "from away", but we're still kind and willing to give the benefit of the doubt. We are curious, particularly about why you're not curious. Indeed, we can't understand why others won't make an effort.
On the ladies, we're either totally raw and all out there, or seemingly sophisticated but actually quite salty underneath. I put my friend Meg and I in this second category. She pulls off the sophisticated a lot better than I do, must be those days at Choate, but even I can sport pearls with the best of them when duty calls and earn some buy in. Still, wearing said pearls, we can discuss bodily functions with no shame and guffaws all around. And the biggest of female Sox fans can beat any male fan of any other team at trivia any day of the week and twice on Sunday. (No, as much as I love the Sox, I've sat in front of these women at games and can only promise novice ability compared to the geyser of information they hold within.)
When we were in Boston last week, my colleague kept begging me to fall into my accent. I don't so much adopt the accent when I'm back home, but I do adopt the dialect. As I greet students interviewing with me, I ask if they'd like "mum and dad to join us or should we check in with them later." Talk of dinner turns to talk of supper. I enjoy training newcomers that Peabody is actually pronounced "Peebiddy", Worcester is "Wusster" (totally intentional), Waltham is "Wallthamm", etc. And nobody appreciates a girl who can pronounce the Native American rivers, counties, mountain ranges quite like a New England girl. Piscatiqua, anyone?
I am sentimental. I am sad. I love this place so much. Any toughness I have, and I promise it's there, comes from the cold winters and working class values of this place. Any sensitivity and kindness I own was taught to me by parents and teachers, certainly, but also the grocery store cashier, bank tellers and shopkeepers.
Oh snap out of it. Talk to me after the holidays and the bold truth of a December morning has hit me smack in the face. Then I'll be longing for my sweet home Virginia all over again.
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