(Creative Commons, wbaiv)
To the pretentious coastlines, we’re boring. We’re nothing more than cornfields, dirt roads and farmers. We live in the place where culture comes to a standstill, where there’s nothing to do and nothing to see.
I used to think the Midwest was lifeless too. Luckily I lived in Shanghai for long enough to be able to say with a clear conscience: I’m not from Indiana. I’m from Shanghai. Yet over time, I’ve come to love the Midwest, except for the square states, and the flurry of misconceptions that accompany it. Though we might be able to drive 20 minutes to the nearest field, the Midwest is still a nuanced place to grow up and deserves our irrevocable pride.
To be clear, Midwestern nice is different from Southern hospitality, so don’t equate the two. We invite you into our home not just because we really want you to get out of the snow in the middle of March, but because we really want you to be safe. When we first moved back to Indiana after spending six years in China, one of our trees fell down during a particularly nasty storm. The next day, my mom and I drove to Lowe’s to buy a saw to cut it down. Though we made progress, the tree trunk was still far from removed. But when we woke up the next day, our neighbors had taken an electric saw to it, finished the job and thrown the trunk in their trash can.
Niceness also should not be defined by hours of volunteerism per capita. Congeniality is more than just perceived altruistic behavior; it’s waving at strangers on the street, in your car or from one of the windows in your house, when they pass by. It’s apologizing profusely, almost as frequently as Canadians (they fit right into Midwestern life), and gauging distance not by miles but by the time it takes to drive to a particular place. Twenty-mile drives and hour-long travel times are considered the norm.
Unlike the sprawling metropolises of New York and Los Angeles, we don’t sit through insufferable traffic stops. You can cut people off, by pure accident or because you’re running late, and no one will honk or swear at you. Some of my friends at Emory have told me they hate roundabouts, but that’s because they haven’t yet experienced the ergonomic roundabouts of Carmel. Instead of trapping people in a circle, we have clearly marked exits and drivers who actually know how to drive in a circular motion. And at least when we say we’re improving the environment, it’s not just talk.
Admittedly, there really isn’t much to do in Indiana. In fact, when you live long enough in the Midwest, you realize that one of our quintessential hobbies is driving. Driving in the summer, with the windows rolled down and music blasting so loud it’s vibrating the entire car, is revitalizing and exhilarating. I meet my friends in empty church parking lots at 7 p.m. and eat sushi and talk with them until 1 a.m. on the top of my car. On Friday nights, we gather in someone’s basement and play way too much Euchre, a 4-person card game. At Asian parties, we play Euchre tournaments with as much intensity as old ladies shuffling Mahjong tiles. Window shopping through grocery stores is a major social event. When we get bored, we pile in someone’s car, drive to the nearest Kroger, buy two one-liter bottles of soda and mentos and watch our friends get showered with Coke in the parking lot.
Instead of bar hopping and other drunken festivities, Midwesterners have an unmistakable talent for small talk about the weather. In fact, unpredictable weather is a staple of Midwestern solidarity. The first snow often hits in late October, and on occasion, it’ll snow in March or April. The Midwest runs on a bi-seasonal calendar, where fall is five days and spring is at most one week. One day you’re wearing a thin jacket and the next day you’re arriving at school in a parka.
While I’m not in a position to claim that I know the locations of all 50 states, the extent of geographical ignorance across the U.S. concerns me. I’ve done some research: walking from McDonough field to Asbury Circle, I stop as many random strangers as possible, and ask two questions: could you point out Indiana on a map? And do you know the card game Euchre? With some exceptions, people could not find Indiana, and no one knew Euchre. Disappointing as this is, I’m not surprised. People brush us off as “flyover” states and never bother to give us a chance.
Since coming to Emory, I’ve made “from Indiana” part of my personality. After trying to get away from it for so long, abashedly muttering “I’m from Indiana” and qualifying it with “but I grew up in Shanghai” just to make myself sound cool. The more people who told me that the Midwest was nothing more than cows and cornfields, the more I wanted to argue with them and defend my city. As cheesy as it sounds, I’m proud of being from Indiana. I take pride in being unnecessarily nice and driving 20 over the speed limit. I take pride in a landscape that integrates both the modern and the agriculture. A city that hasn’t been taken over by skyscraper hubris, smog and homogenous chain restaurants. In my city, I can see the 49-floor Salesforce tower and the soaring buildings surrounding Monument Circle, and I can also look out my window and see more than 10 miles of clear visibility ahead of me.
I used to be ashamed of the illusionary backwardness of Indiana, but now I’m only disappointed that we don’t have more Midwestern pride. If I don’t defend my city, who will?
Sophia Ling (24C) is from Carmel, Indiana.
Sophia Ling (she/her) (24C) is from Carmel, Indiana and double majoring in Political Science and Sociology. She wrote for the Current in Carmel. She also loves playing guitar and piano, cooking and swimming. In her free time, she learns new card tricks and practices typing faster.
