Yippie-yi-yo-ki-yay

Today as I walked to my office I was passed by a young man in cowboy boots on a pink scooter. He turned the corner near the Fine Arts building rather abruptly and headed south towards some unknown destination.  I like to think that he was an engineering or business major and always traveled this way. Bikes, long boards, and scooters on common on campus, but the color pink c added its own distinctive flare.

Cowboy boots are also a common sight in the west. Everyone from deans to the president of the university wear them. They are readily available in our numerous feed stores and come in a wild array of styles and colors. One local woman I know wears her Utah purchased pink cowboy boots daily with much notice on the streets of Paris. She has small feet and a slight form that allow her to shop in either the women’s or children’s sections which make her choices even more diverse and individual.

My kids are westerners by birth. Both wore cowboy boots as preschoolers; Hana red ones and Ben black ones, but the style choice certainly didn’t stick. Recently I noticed that they lack traits and styles that would make them seem like westerners, even though they were both born in the same hospital room, by the same nurse midwife, in our mid-sized northern Utah town.  Some things just don’t stick, and having parents who are Mid-westerners and prefer larger cities to anywhere in Utah has not helped them settle in to their heritage.

When we discussed their origins last night at dinner, Hana claimed to be British because of an online survey she took. This bears out somewhat in the black heavy stitched Doc Martin shoes she wears. Still, her love of anime and all things Japanese give her a more decidedly international flair. Ben was non-committal about his western heritage.  He prefers to identify with his likes, dislikes, and hobbies.

This makes me wonder if I am a displaced person raising unconnected children. I was born in Indiana while my parents lived in Michigan, a half-hour away. Having lived in seven different locations before starting middle school, my life never really felt settled. My dad was from Wisconsin, and because he felt strongly connected to the state, he talked about it often and jumped at the chance to move back. When we moved to Janesville, I became a Wisconsinite too. I married an Iowan, so both of us are at least connected regionally. We lived in Chicago for nearly five years and during this time I had to fight my dislike of Illinois folk to get along. Illinois was seen as a rival state, one that invaded during summers to vacation and abuse our many natural resources. I was always happy to return home. Even now, whenever I fly into a Wisconsin airport, the people feel right, with sensible taste and a good sense of humor.

Returning to my earlier encounter with Mr. Cowboy boots and a pink scooter, I don’t really think that this young gentleman thought twice about his identity before leaving home today.  Perhaps people don’t think about where they are from unless they leave. They just grab their identity and go. I suspect both of my children will feel comfortable in almost any environment, so place doesn’t seem to matter.