Ponderings of a Pariah
And of passive-aggressive pleasantry.
The first time someone called me “a pariah,” I had to look it up. I was caught off-guard by the comment made nearly ten years ago now, and have been haunted by it since. A pariah is a person who is avoided or not accepted by a social group, esp. because he or she is not liked, respected, or trusted; an outcast.
As a non-native in central West Virginia, I have always known that as someone “not from here,” I would and could never become a true local. No one here knows my family, my roots, where I came from, or who my people are. There are no clans here with the surname McDermott, Merrill, McCoy, Wheeler, or Hayes with an e.
My inability to remember who is related to who is alone enough to handicap me. Never in my life have I been part of the “in” group, but I did have the impression that most people who encounter me at least carry basic respect for me as a human being, and that a majority of folks don’t think about me at all.
But a pariah? An outcast? This implies that folks continually carry a dislike, distrust, and level of general distaste for my existence. They invest energy into the shun, the slight, and the behind-my-back slander and/or mud-slinging. That there’s actually a conspiring social group that gets satisfaction from setting me aside.
But once I began thinking about it, I had to admit: after 25 years in my county, I haven’t developed many (very few in fact) solid relationships. People are friendly, but not quite “friends.” I thought perhaps, when we were invited to an annual local Fourth of July party, we had at least found a “clan.” But we were never invited back. (I gave up wondering why.)
I’m not a socialite by any means, but a review of the evidence seems to reflect that folks in the county don’t get me after all. Sure, when I’m out, I encounter polite, smiling faces - some of them a little cool perhaps, but until recently, I never imagined the existence of behind-the-scenes scuttlebutt that exists in a passive-aggressive society.
I’m not an EASY person, nor do I fit in most social boxes. But I had no idea that I was a community pariah. But more and more, the evidence points that way.
Or, perhaps it’s simply the nature of the community, their lack of trust for outsiders, fear of intelligent women, of unboxable, unpredictable, and complicated people, AND the fact that I’m not from here. Could be that I, at some point, stepped on the wrong toes? (I do that.) Have I spent the last twenty years oblivious to whispers because I didn’t think anyone actually cared about me either way?
I have given this a grand amount of thought and energy. I get it. A little bit of me goes a long way. I have strong opinions, and I know too much - I AM too much. I’m not the most flexible person in the world, I’m a registered Independent, and I don’t belong to any local church. I am often blunt and straightforward.
(Once, after I pitched a fit over a Glenville city council vote, my husband entered the hardware store to be greeted with, “Frank. Your wife...” And Frank replied, “She’s not my problem, she’s yours.” That same year, I also pitched a fit in the local newspaper office and ended up charged with trespassing. I know who I am, and I know right from wrong. I freely admit I confront unacceptable wrongs. Yes, I’d like to say “address,” but “confront” is the right word here.)
I was talking with a new friend last week about an in-county summer event where I felt I was being shuffled to the bottom of the deck. In telling the story, I noted, “I thought I would be at least near my friends…”
“They’re not your friends,” she interrupted.
Ouch. I didn’t ask for elaboration, having now come to accept my position as a pariah. I grew up as a “river rat,” so I’m a good swimmer. Those bridges can burn.
When I lived in the city, a simple job change and/or apartment change provided an entirely new start. From “North End” to “South Side” may as well have been a new world. New surroundings, new neighborhood, new coworkers, new group. New food delivery options, new stores nearby, new traffic patterns and service centers, and…
We live along the county line. I’ve spent time on each side of it, and if anyone tells you “all small-town communities are the same,” they’re wrong. Like every valley, hillside, and ridgetop, each is its own micro-environment, influenced by access and education, leadership and political pundits, investors and volunteers.
Like the difference between North End and South Side, between valley and mountaintop, between a shallow pond and a flowing river, small communities DO differ. They may face the same challenges, but respond to them in different ways.
And just as I have come to know “the players” in the pond in our backyard - turtles, geese, deer, coots, mergansers, herons, fish - I am familiar with the players in each county. And I have always been astonished, not only at their differences but also how each is exactly the opposite of what one would expect.
Big things are happening in the one-flashing traffic-light town. And the college town with an actual traffic light and tiny traffic circle? Heck — even the traffic light itself is often dysfunctional (and has now been wrapped in black trash bags).
And the only explanation I have is that one community is more open to crazy and impossible ideas (and people), and the other isn’t. One favors community development and the other favors economic development. One community welcomes, while the other community wanes. One comes together, and the other sets apart.
I’m just an observer of it all. You know, a mere pariah, dancing on the county line, working remotely from nowhere for California wages, rooting for the underdog, as I always do. I’m alone and lonely, but I cheer and celebrate every accomplishment and development I see in that flashing stoplight county. Each new business, new coat of paint, new medical service, and new community feature relating to tourism, recreation, history, and nature. Every fuss and fight there lets me know that they’re working towards the future. The county that, in spite of my physical address, I now refer to as home.
Does anyone out there know how to move a county line?