I liked Rusty's post yesterday, which inspired this drawing...
Le sigh. It's kind of embarrassing, but some of my very first blog posts were about bees and hipsters. You see, *I* made fun of hipsters before other people did. Especially in their addiction to gadgets...from one of my all-time favorite posts.
The thing about hipsters is that they're at least trying to be different from the mainstream. They're not at all succeeding, but they're putting forth a valiant effort. On the other hand, where I live, not all, but some people don't like readin' or usin' their "g"s much. At least hipsters are trying to be well read. Sort of.
Who am I?
Some people here have called me a hippy. I would be okay with that except I'm not even close to being a hippy, and there's no way hippies would think I'm a hippy. I'm not cool enough to be a hipster, because I understand that no one looks good in skinny jeans. I'm not rich enough to be a yuppy, and I'm too dark. I guess I'm a Generation X'er, whatever the heck that means?
The other night I went to a poetry reading and it was so nice. The poet was my age, and from the West Coast, like me. He talked about Oregon, and the logging town he was from. The audience adored him, but I felt strange. Here he was, in the heartland, rhapsodizing and reading about the wilds of the West to the delight of the audience.
But it was like being in a foreign country. You live there for a few years, pick up some of the customs, but remain an outsider, and long for home. One day, an American walks into your local bar. You know he imagines he is speaking to a crowd of only French people, and perceives you as French. The French people think you're American, the American thinks you are French, and your weirdness stands out on a daily basis, but his weirdness is temporary, exotic, entertaining. And then he goes home.
When I am home, I feel out of place too. You carry these experiences with you - living here, and there, and places you don't belong. And then when you go where you think you belong, you find you don't, because you're an outsider everywhere. Identity is a sonofabitch.
So where is home for me? In my hometown there is an independent video store where they might not even allow you to rent the movie you want because they want to save you from the mainstream, so you end up with art films and small budget foreign films when you went in for A Bug's Life.
It's really the yupsters I'd have to worry about, with their Lexuses (lexi?), chic wine collections, and Montessori kids. Actually, I kind of like those things, I just can't afford them. But if I move into the country I'd to have to start wearing long denim skirts with t-shirts and birkenstocks and eat only whole grains and drive a Subaru.
Who the heck am I? If I wasn't a teacher, who would I be? I'm not a mommy or a wife. I have no money and I'm not particularly cool. Who and what am I? We all think we're just a person. I'm just wondering what kind of bee I am in this beehive we call life.
What type of person are you? Do you ever wonder what type of person you are in other people's eyes?