Cable “News” & Church Pews

I think about this all the time, because I have relatives and peers who were — at one time — (seemingly) normal people.

But after years of exposure to Fox News and QAnon, and other things of that odious nature, their brains have rotted.

You may be thinking, That’s extreme. You don’t need to exaggerate, or be mean, or be judgmental. Be a little kinder!

No. I don’t think I will. People have already spent too much time mincing their words about a pretty serious situation. This is something that’s poisoned minds and hearts. We may as well call Fox News and QAnon Jupiter, because these folks have gone there to get more stupider.

And — in addition to acting more ignorant by the hour — these people are suffering from other diminished faculties. They’re more fearful than ever. They’re angry all of the time.

They’re also convinced that all Christians in America are secretly spied upon and persecuted, even though there are dozens of Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ, Catholic, Episcopal, and non-denominational churches around here. None of those churches are boarded up, and they’re constantly holding events for new members. They send out postcards begging young families to bring their kids to game nights and car shows. They really try to make it a family affair.

Truthfully — and even the brainwashed folks, if they were being rational, would acknowledge this — the biggest “enemy” working against “the faith” is apathy. Many of these people have kids and grandkids who don’t have an interest in the church. Many young people also won’t go to church because they can find faith-based information and/or community in a judgment-free zone. The church is not — generally speaking — a judgment-free zone. The young people are tired of being bullied by people who think church is a competition or a fashion show. That is why they have no interest in attending a “more traditional” church. It feels too much like high school.

But the concept of “traditional values” has given these (usually older) folks something to rally around. They think that, if they could just convince their kids and grandkids to go back to church, that suddenly everything would fall into place. Lots of cherubic babies, little ones with soft curls and dimpled cheeks, would spill out of us, the young women, like lace unspooled from a slender filature.

With a Gunne-Sax dress covering my body from shoulder to ankle, and a beautiful (but silenced) baby on my hip, and a young man with an unfortunate face expression standing in front of me, I would be the model of perfect femininity. I would bend to my husband’s will, as the perfect helpmeet, and listen to whatever tidbits of nothingness he’d managed to collect from a busy day of listening to Ben Shapiro’s podcasts while he either (1) drove an air-conditioned tractor up and down the field or (2) dumped numbers into Google Sheets.

My husband and I would pretend to smile from sunup to sundown, and we would only get a break while we cried ourselves to sleep, miserable at having been paired off to meet the church’s No Husband Left Behind policy.

But on Sunday morning, with Cherubleigh on my hip, we’ll walk into church with our heads held high — but not too high, because the preacher’s daughter will inevitably be there, too. And she will expect us to know our place, as slow-witted peons who can’t afford designer clothing. She — and her peers and her daughters — will glide in wearing matching Coco Chanel and pearls, while I’m stuck in a cheap-o prairie dress that came from a virtual vanity boutique.

The boutique, of course, is run by the preacher’s wife or daughter. And that’s yet another way they expect us to tithe. I’m starting to wonder whether this money is funding the house of the Lord or the House of Chanel.

Anyway — as bleak as that sounds, I think that some people think this “return to traditional values” sounds nice and normal, simply because people are given a place to be in the world. That’s true — so long as everyone knows their place.

Nobody expects to be at the bottom of the ladder — except for me. I know that I would be placed on a bottom rung, and that I would be given a philanderer or an abuser, and that I would be expected to straighten him out or be a good little SAHM Soldier. I would be expected to tame the dishes, the mistresses, the laundry, and the insatiable libido. And I know I couldn’t do it, because my spirit would be broken.

Surprisingly — to many people — I am actually a straight woman. But I would prefer to choose things for myself, just as every living being does. Even children and the elderly like to choose things for themselves, because they are people, too.

And while it’s true that some children and some elderly folks need extra assistance, they still have the autonomy to refuse things — or to ask for an alternative option. If our ability to even have preferences is taken away from us, then I’m at a loss for what to do.

Suppose I do decide to marry a Godly young man, but I would prefer for us to attend a different church — for one reason or another. If I don’t have a say in the matter, how is that fair to me? Similarly, how is that fair to my husband and/or family, to have a sulking mother who’s on the path to becoming an apostate, all because they wouldn’t allow me to have my own thoughts and feelings?

Ah, well. They don’t care about that. These are the same people who leave “F**k your feelings!” in the comments on every Facebook posts — from the poorly-generated AI art to the AT&T ads.

While I know they don’t care about confining people to a lifetime of unhappiness, I find it odd that they think their sons and daughters, or grandsons and granddaughters, would find being a Trad Spouse Content Creator exciting. Besides, that market is beyond oversaturated by now. I can’t compete with the Ballerina Farms lady, because I’m not a ballerina and I don’t own my own farm.

I’m certainly not opposed to spirituality and faith — and I find a lot of folks find strength in their faith. But making faith a commodity and/or fodder for influencers, and making church feel like a country club, and making people feel that any Outsiders — even other Protestants — are not to be trusted?

Those are the things that have made me feel uncomfortable and unwelcome in the various churches I’ve attended or visited.

Yet there’s still this lingering idea that, if we could get every American soul — to say nothing of the bodies! into a pew on Sunday morning, that the country would experience a complete reversal of fortunes. Everyone would have a stately, ornate dining room. Everyone would have a solid gold toilet. Everyone would drive a freshly-waxed Maserati.

Well, everyone except for the people I hate!”

But enough about that.

Anyway, the folks at that terrible cable “news” network — a channel that focuses on punditry and opinion shows, a channel that rarely broadcasts actually news content — have landed on a gold mine. They know that they can pay someone to ramble about highly-emotional topics — faith, bravery, veterans, children — and that they’ll entice millions of Boomers to sweat issues that …

Frankly, these issues are best handled on a family-by-family basis. Not every family has kids — some are childless, some are childfree, some are TTC, and some have stepchildren who are only in the home half of the month, or half of the year, or only during summers. Not every family goes to the Baptist church — though some are Methodists, some are Catholics, some are not religious, and some are happily living in interfaith families. Because of this variety, there’s no one prescription to “save” all the “families” of America.

For the people who are all about states’ rights, or taking away federal power, it seems that they’d be able to understand the need to make less centralized decisions, or to give the power to choose back to the individual.

But these are the same people who ignore the “well-regulated” in front of “militia,” so I can’t be too certain they’d appreciate the irony of this situation.

To be perfectly honest, I didn’t spend a lot of time drafting this post — simply because I spend most of my time living this post. The South is, of course, where America buckles its Bible Belt. I’m used to hearing people (of all backgrounds, ages, economic classes, denominations) speak about their faith, their church, their volunteer group, or their Bible study class.

I don’t flinch. I certainly don’t insult people. I’ve even taken people up on their offers to visit their churches, because I am admittedly quite nosy, and because I have family members who’ve affiliated with nearly every denomination.

So perhaps it’s shocking when I say that church can still be isolating — and that the biggest “offenders” who have lectured people for not attending church are usually people who are themselves unchurched.

These are the people who have had their names read at a packed Sunday service, or who have argued with a preacher, or who got hopping mad when they saw that a gay couple is now “allowed” to attend services.

It’s hard not to judge the judgmental person who wants to “ban gays” from coming to church. On the other hand, it’s hard not to feel sorry for the woman who quit going to church because she had her name read — a form of public shaming — after divorcing an abusive spouse. There are all kinds of people who have left church — from the judgmental to the unfairly judged.

Through careful planning or dumb luck, the folks at Fox News — and Conservative commentators and podcasters — have landed on the magic formula: make people afraid and get them screaming-mad about feeling persecuted. The delicious irony of this, considering that their own enemies are “snowflakes.”

In fact, that was my original reason for writing this post. After seeing pushback in the wake of the Opening Ceremony — pushback to “mocking religion,” to Greek gods, to pagan priestesses — I realized we were fighting a losing battle against willful ignorance. And after calmly explaining the allusions to Greek mythology at an Olympic celebration, I realized that they didn’t even want an explanation. They’re just as bad as a playground bully who wants to fight. How childish and weirdly unnecessary. Get a better hobby than arguing on Facebook!

Now that I’ve thought about it, Rupert Murdoch has made me a more devout person. Not because I’ve bought into any of their programming. Not at all.

Instead, this wellspring of faith has come about for another reason. I hope and pray that there is a just God watching all of this nonsensical, mean-spirited programming. And I hope that God shows mercy to every person who’s suffered at the hands of someone who’s weaponized the hateful rhetoric on that channel.

I also hope that the same God who shows mercy to others smites dishonest CEOs. If that’s not too much to ask, then I will — as they say — pray on it.

Thoughts and prayers, prayers and thoughts. Pardon me for not having kind thoughts about any of the media moghuls who are trying to deliver us to evil.

Miss Speaking

I’m still haunted by the time I said state senator instead of US senator in a presentation back in high school.

I’m also haunted by the time I said cathedral instead of chapel in a meeting at work.

No one besides me remembers these incidents — no one besides me obsesses over these incidents, even if they do happen to remember them.

But I often feel hyper-scrutinized, and I also feel hyper-aware of curiosity that isn’t even actual scrutiny.

So when I feel like I’ve made a bad impression, or like I’m on the receiving end of a harmless snap-judgement, I feel like I won’t ever have a chance to make up for it.

I feel like everyone will only know me as the weird woman who misspeaks.

… but I guess I could handle that.

Or I could use Gorilla Glue as lip gloss. I’m thinking about trying that.

Coveting The Neighbor’s Wife

Last week at work, some folks were talking about goals you’ve seen other people reach that you also want to attain/achieve/use cut-throat violence and extreme manipulation to acquire.

But I don’t usually look at other people and think, “I want that for me, too.”

I only quote that 700 Club meme when I’m looking at a picture of a hot celebrity.

I’m not the kind of person who looks at other peoples’ houses and says, “Oooh, I want to live there.” I just say, “Oooh, that’s a pretty nice house. I love this part, but I wouldn’t want to deal with that part.”

Obviously, I wouldn’t say that last bit out loud – about not liking every part of something. Most people are proud of the stuff they’ve recently acquired. They like the parts and the sum of the parts, you know?

Unless it’s something truly far-out, like a person with a fear of mice moving into a scientist’s palatial mansion — only to realize that they installed a maze in the basement for their cat-sized lab rats.

Basically, I’ve never liked any new houses or new cars badly enough to want that exact same thing for me – everything from pets to boyfriends to purses. I’ve either liked something different, or I wanted to attain my own thing with its own personality and/or features.

To be perfectly honest, I can’t stand all these hypotheticals that come up during early morning chats and meetings, just because it’s tough to think of an “appropriate” answer to a hyper-specific question.

The other day, I felt absolutely silly trying to think of a favorite artist or architect – but I just couldn’t. It’s not that I don’t appreciate art, but it’s that I’m more of a … farm-fed type of person. 

If you’ve followed this blog from the beginning, you know where I’m from. I’m a country girl who’s made do.

I don’t go for steel and glass – and I can’t say I’ve been particularly awed by any modern buildings. I don’t hate cities — but I would rather visit a city than live in one. I know that some basically all skyscrapers are incredible feats of architecture, but I’m not into industrial-type stuff. I like things that blend in, and I’m not into, like, the Burj Khalifa. I don’t need to look at something that stands out against a desert landscape, a forested backdrop, etc.

But I really struggle when it comes to answering “oh, me, too!” types of questions. I feel like a fake person every day when I walk into work. I have a Work Persona that is quieter and softer than I am in real life. This persona is also a little bit shy and a bit of a non-assertive office drone.

I’m not an office siren. I’m an office fire detector with a low battery.

And I can tell people don’t like this workplace persona – not really – but I can’t seem to break away from it. I can’t be too … too different out of nowhere. So I’m stuck in my current (unusual, half-melted) box. Of course, I’ve never really minded being unusual. It’s the most distinctive thing about me — that I don’t mind being unusual.

Of course, I blame myself sometimes for not trying harder to fit in. I tell myself that maybe I seem too stupid, if I can’t think of a “good” answer to an icebreaker question.

But … I can’t rehearse my own life. I just have to try to live an authentic life — I just have to be me, and I just need to be satisfied with this version of myself.

Memories, Circa 1999 and 2003

Two of the more (emotionally) devastating moments of my childhood involved pain. One situation involved physical pain, and the other situation involved the pain of embarrassment.

The first incident happened during a hospital visit. A nurse had to give me two shots — one in the back of each leg — to get me to calm down enough to have an MRI done. I was only five. Five.

The other situation wasn’t as terrible, but it involved me making a fool of myself. This was in third grade, when we still had a class specifically dedicated to reading. They gave us time to read in class, and I remember enjoying that part of the class. (I loved to read middle-grade books, which are still a marvel to me.)

I feel like middle-grade books are probably harder to write than picture books or YA books, because it’s so hard to write authentically and capture an eight- or nine-year-old’s attention. By the time you’re in middle school, you start to realize what feels fake, what feels real, what feels genuine, and what feels like moralizing. Or pandering.

Even in a time of confusion and growing pains, it seems like most tweens can figure out the difference between a gimmick and a gem. The good middle-grade books are definitely gems.

In spite of my passion for reading, I didn’t always like doing my reading class homework. One of our homework assignments involved preparing a paragraph that used at least two or three of that week’s vocabulary words. I hadn’t done the assignment, just because I’d simply forgotten to – and when it was time to share our paragraphs with the class, I decided to do an impromptu, off-the-cuff story.

This wasn’t like me at all — not having done my homework and giving an impromptu performance. It must’ve been an awful performance, because the teacher called me out and asked why I didn’t do the assignment the right way. I can’t remember what my punishment was, but … I’m sure I didn’t enjoy it.

That teacher was the kind of schoolmarm who made “lesser” students feel bad. But I was already very acutely aware of “my station” in the school’s social strata. By the time I left that elementary school, I was the only girl in my class who didn’t have a doctor for a parent.

My experiences there gave me an aversion to parochial education, too, which I find regressive for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with religion. (It’s the strict prissiness of it all. I’m fine with the pageantry, but I can’t stand the constant glaring and the constant finger-wagging.)

Anyway, I …

I suppose I had it relatively easy, if those are two of the “meaner” interactions I’ve had with other people. But they left an impression on me — and made me feel more aware of my own shortcomings — so that’s something.

If nothing else, I’ve learned to be less harsh with children. And that really is something.

On (Not) Being Better

I recently remembered the time that I wrote – in a feature piece for our high school newspaper – that “no culture is inherently superior to another culture.” 

I was in ninth or tenth grade – I’m thinking that it was the very beginning of tenth grade, when I was still about fifteen. Picture a nerdy-looking, tall, kinda chubby fifteen-year-old, with frizzy hair and tiny little glasses. I was a dork — so picture the dorkiest teen imaginable. Now, picture this teenager sitting down with the newspapers’ editors and the club sponsor, and then picture them telling me to take that line out of the article.

I have to assume they asked me to take it out for one of two reasons. The first reason is that I may have unintentionally done a horrible job of explaining what I meant to say – that no one group of people is inherently better than another group, based solely (or in part) upon their religion, their food, their appearance, their clothing, their customs, etc. No one group is more intelligent than everyone else, or more stylish, or more sexy, or more “correct” in whatever way.

So, you know, I have to assume I did such a terrible job of explaining things that maybe I sounded like a biased American. I’m afraid they thought I could’ve been saying that no culture is superior to the “American way” or some other Tea Party-esque bullshit. I’m afraid that’s what happened, because at fifteen, I had lots of room to grow as a writer — and as a person. But I knew what I was trying to say – and I was trying to argue for a more open-minded … uh, mindset.

A more open-minded mindset, mind you.

The other option is that they understood exactly what I was saying, and that they made me cut it from my piece because they knew it would make some of the older readers in our community upset.

This was almost fifteen years ago, before people started getting riotously mad over the content in student publications. Nowadays, though, you hear stories about student journalists being pressured to take certain articles off their websites.

But in our day, the worst thing that happened to us – as far as pushback – was an angry admonishment from a teacher, or an advertiser wanting to quit paying for ad space. This happened once, to my knowledge. It was after we had two opinion pieces that included scandalous words like “damn” and “suck” – and one of these was simply part of the title of a movie, the ridiculous 2010 comedy Vampires Suck.

Oh, well. I can’t say we didn’t need the advertiser’s money. But we found more accommodating folks, who didn’t mind that kid’s say the suckiest things. We were able to write our opinion pieces in … uh, peace.

As I mentioned earlier, we did have to tone some stuff down. But …

I still get embarrassed when I think about how I often tried to be progressive without fully having the phrasing or the contextual knowledge to know how to express myself properly.

I still had the courage to go forward, to learn, to actually try to do better, without stumbling over myself to try to prove that my intentions outweigh other folks’ feelings and life experiences.

And I’m glad I had that — that willingness to keep listening and growing. I’m glad that I was willing to keep learning, and I’m glad that I’m still willing to learn.

MFA vs. NYC vs. N-E-T

A few weeks ago, I learned something relatively innocuous. I learned that one of friend-quaintances is working on an MFA.

I have plenty of friends who are writers. I have friends (and foes) who are working journalists, who write things for millions of readers. In spite of knowing these friends are more “famous” than I am, it hasn’t really caused me to feel jealous.

But this felt different.

It’s difficult to explain, but I felt … not jealous, but kind of pained. Dejected? Weird? Sad? I can’t quite put my finger on why, but it felt weird to find out that someone I thought I knew would post that they were working on a novel.

And then — because I’m self-absorbed and unattractive, and prone to doing all sorts of ridiculous things — I wondered if any of her characters were inspired by me.

… probably not.

I do all of my writing online, with all of my material being self-hosted(ish) and self-published. I post fun stuff over here on my personal site and I post my serious stuff on Medium, so I’ve generally shrugged at the MFA vs. NYC debates — especially in the current era. We live in a time where journalists and writers are having to work at building an online presence, in spite of their hard work elsewhere. Journalists, novelists, poets, and artists are forced to become influencers and content creators if they want to continue “staying relevant,” “building their brand,” or … you know … possibly getting paid a living wage.

That last one seems more critical than the other two.

I often encourage writing for the sake of writing, even without a degree or fancy credentials or 200,000 followers.

People ought to be paid for their creative efforts, of course, but I don’t think people need to feel as if their writing is somehow less valuable because they’re a blogger without a degree, or a hobbyist, or a newbie.

Even the folks who will never get an MFA, who will never set foot inside a publishing company, who will never have a professional byline — all of these folks should keep writing.

Not under pressure or under duress — and not without recognition and compensation (of some sort). Write poems for your partner, if they’ll appreciate them. Share your work with friends and/or family. Maybe you can only share your work with Internet friends — but that can be freeing and helpful, too. It’s a way of building community, of sharing your skills, of participating in the world.

My hope is that all writers — hobbyists, professionals, people who are somewhere in between — will keep writing until we can figure out a more sustainable model for everyone to get a fair shake at things.

Seasonal Depression

This last push toward spring always gets me. In my head, I’m walking up a hill filled with daffodils — and the promise of better weather and warmer days. About halfway up the hill, though — that’s when I’ll hit the first slick spot. There are always two or three slick spots, or muddy spots, or icy spots on the big hill.

That’s what late January and early February feel like, for me.

The first time I noticed that I was depressed, back in 2013, I had trouble showering, cleaning up, shaving, trimming my nails, etc. I’ll readily admit that I had hygiene troubles — and it was because I couldn’t get my brain to take care of the basic business of living.

Back then, I remember that one of my dental hygienists asked me if I was brushing my teeth properly. I was completely depressed — and I feel like other people besides my hygienist noticed it, but absolutely no one else said anything about it.

People are too polite to meddle — when it’s something really serious, I mean. Some people feel free to give an overweight person unsolicited advice on dieting or exercise, because they feel entitled to comment on what would make someone else more palatable or pleasurable — to them, the outside observer. It’s a disgusting type of behavior — to try to throw a life preserver at someone who doesn’t want or need one.

But these same people are nowhere to be found when someone is genuinely struggling, or genuinely in need of a support system. These same people absolutely struggle to give advice to — or to even be around — someone with depression, because … I guess they think thoughts-of-suicide are contagious.

At this point, I have to admit that I’m lucky to have not struggled with suicidal ideation. I usually just … I feel trapped where I am. I feel like moving on to something else would suit me better, so anytime I start to panic, I begin making plans for a completely different future. I also catastrophize, yeah, but I keep telling myself that I can start planning for a different future, with a different life — and that’s always kept me focused on living.

Wait a damn minute. Is that just maladaptive daydreaming? I don’t think so, because some of my plans have come to fruition. Some haven’t, of course, but that’s …

That’s probably a good thing.

Now, eleven years later, you’d think I’d be used to depressive episodes. And I am. I’ve found ways to cope. But I’m perpetually exhausted. I do everything I possibly can, even when I’m low on energy, but then I collapse at the end of the day.

So, instead of not showering, I do make sure that I carve out time for bathing. But it’s an almost Herculanean feat. I will shower, but it will take nearly thirty minutes to take care of everything — showering, shaving, etc.

I can trim my toenails or brush my hair, but then I’ll have to take a fifteen or twenty minute break to mentally regroup. And the most confusing aspect, for me, is that I don’t feel like I should feel fatigued.

I don’t do a lot of strenuous work or exercise, but because I spend my days overthinking, I exhaust myself.

I’m not physically exhausted, but I get mentally overwhelmed. It drains me, trying to keep up with just the basic tasks of living. Being interested in living is tougher, when the grass isn’t green and the sky is always a little too gray.

By spring, these signs and symptoms will dissipate. I’ll start feeling more normal and, with more daylight hours, I’ll feel like I have more time to get things done.

I just have to make it through this last little window of winter. And I’ll try my best, one minute at a time.

Royal Tea

I’ve written before about how — after tracing a branch of my family tree back to colonial Virginia — I found out that I had Congolese ancestors.

After years of researching this side of our tree, I learned quite a bit about Chesapeake Creole folks and Melungeon people.

After hearing about Prince King Charles’s (alleged) fears about multiethnic/multiracial families, I wondered: What would that bloke think of Melungeons?

It’s not that I actually care what he thinks. I just think that he’d be secretly a little bit afraid to meet anyone from Kentucky, Tennessee, and that particular corner of Virginia. The not knowing who is “what” would completely confuse him.

I doubt he’s coming to this part of the country. And that’s … that’s fine by me.

It’s more than fine, actually.

Nightcap

Last night/tonight/this morning, I decided to take advantage of this cross-country wind/snow/ice maelstrom by making the most of the time I’m spending indoors.

Sorry for all of the slashes, by the way. I promise that I’ll slow down with those. But I’ll never let go of the em-dash. Never.

I decided to do chores and drink some Asti. I did laundry, I did some dishwashing, I did some baking, and I had a wee drink.

The bottle seemed like a Nebuchadnezzar, even though it was probably a Jeroboam.

I feel like I ought to know more about who Jeroboam was, considering that he has so much to offer.

I didn’t overdo it, by the way. I had a rather small glass — but I drank on a mostly empty stomach.

I almost made some Indomie chicken curry noodles, but I realized that I could just eat some of the chocolate chip oatmeal cookies I was in the middle of baking. It was a matter of waiting fifteen minutes instead of five minutes, so I braved the moment by thinking about … well, a lot of nothing. As always.

My body was moving faster and faster, getting things done more quickly than I felt like I had any right to. But my brain started moving more and more slowly. I kept walking around and moving, even though I could feel my thoughts sloshing around.

Whenever I drink wine, I feel sleepy and happy — but mostly sleepy. I can’t say that I’ve ever experienced anything quite like I experienced tonight, though. The closest comparison I can make is that I felt similarly lightheaded the last time I donated blood.

I calmed down pretty quickly, but I still felt a weird combination of … euphoria and confusion. Everything was going haywire. I burned my hands while trying to put away glasses that got too hot in the dishwasher, so I decided to just sit quietly and try to collect myself.

I sat on the couch and opened TikTok. I don’t know why I thought this would help. I watched a couple of TikTok lives. One was an older South Korean man who wore a wig and played the recorder. The next one was an older American man who wore a suit and sang Nina Simone songs.

!” I said, as I watched these two performances. I couldn’t really form long sentences or meaningful words, but I could form !s.

If you want to know what ! sounds like, then imagine a muted hiccup. A hiccup that’s followed by a fuzzy tingle in your consciousness.

My mind began to race and then slow down again. I felt like a laptop with a whirring fan.

I also felt like I was made out of someone else’s secrets. I was just a bundle of bubbles and … even more bubbles.

But I also felt warm and jazzy. I felt like Corporate Memphis. I felt like a saxophone solo.

A saxophone solo followed by seven hours of sleep. And it was amazing.

Our People, Our Place

A couple months ago, I watched a documentary about a young woman from my hometown. She was murdered, and the circumstances surrounding her murder were tragic. She was a mother. She was especially young — still a teen, if I remember correctly. They found her on a football practice field. I think about her when I drive past that field, which has since been landscaped with a garden in her memory.

Throughout the documentary, there were repeated mentions of how football has always been a huge cultural asset in our town. This is the kind of place where you have to make your own fun — throw a house party, go to someone else’s to hang out, or drive around looking for other people who don’t have anything else to do. There are restaurants that serve alcohol, but there aren’t any bars or clubs. The only “big” opportunity to get out and be around a crowd of people is to go to the Friday night football games, where there’s almost a guaranteed chance that our team will win, no matter who they’re playing against.

The town’s high school football program is near the top of the list of the “most winningnest schools” out of all the high schools around the country. It’s true that the football program is ancient, and that’s part of the reason they can claim so many wins. But football has cemented itself in this town. It’s the kind of thing that children are scouted for, from the time they’re six or seven – if they have talent, they will be playing football when they’re sixteen.

When it comes to professional sports, I’ve generally been more of a basketball fan than a football fan. But always I love to see local kids play well and get recognized for it. I’m always happy when they make it to the state tournament, because … well, they’ve earned the praise.

The documentary I mentioned earlier — about the young woman from our town — seemed respectful. The narrative covered more than the football program. Although the story of our town is intertwined with the stories and the fate of the people who live here, our town is more than just tragedy or triumph. The story of the town and its best features isn’t the same story as the story of what happened to her — her life and her death, and her family’s path to seeking justice.

It’s not winning titles that makes this town worthy of praise. The people around here are the ones who make everything what it is — from the teams to the neighborhoods, from the crowds at parades and games to the folks you see in passing. Not to sound overly sentimental, but the people around here make the town what it is.

Our people — the ones who care about each other — are really our best feature.