June 12, 2004

I Just Live Here

COLUMBIA, S.C. – At times I find it rather easy to forget I live in South Carolina. That’s not a dig on the state, but let’s just say that it wasn’t made for anyone but those who are from here.

There are stores like Starbuck’s Coffee and Best Buy and Pier One that you’ll find in just about every other city in the United States, placed just so in a central part of any suburb. The thing is that most of the Columbia area is a suburb, or, quite frankly, the sticks.

There are constant reminders: the smooth drawl that runs some sounds of the English language clear out of local pronunciation, odd word concoctions like “might could,” all those license plates and that yellow stuff they mistakenly call bar-b-cue. But drive on a baron road listening to music not indicative of Southern living and, with the exception of the abundance of live oak and pine, all one has to do is think of somewhere else and one is there. It helps still to have a mobile phone to one’s ear talking with someone outside of this state and the transportation is nearly complete.

Then there are the constant reminders that I’m welcome – well, my money is welcome – but not for too long, unless I assimilate. If I get asked one more time what church home I belong to I might just turn right around and ask them how it feels to be a Jew. I did that once to some Jehovah’s Witness who picked the wrong door to knock on in Gainesville, Fla. It threw him for so much of a loop he not only didn’t have a response but turned tail and ran. I don’t go around asking people why they haven’t learned that the Jews are the chosen people. Why not jump on the bandwagon of Abraham and ride along? I just want to be left alone when it comes to religion. Is that a terrible thing to ask for someone who just wants to be left alone to his JAG reruns?

“You must not be from here, are you?” The question is asked after hearing just a touch of my non-South Carolina accent.

“No shit,” I’d think to myself, but make damn sure my lips were clamped shut when I thought it. For whatever reason, my mouth has a tendency of letting ideas slip without realizing. It’s not so much of writing checks my body can’t cash as it is shoving my inner thoughts down someone’s throat. But then again, it’s done here all the time when religion is brought up as I mentioned previously.

It’s not something I relish in, but rather constantly remind myself about. I look forward to the time that I can finally call the place I hang my hat home again. This place just isn’t it. Oddly enough, it’s starting to get really comfortable, which scares me. Being pretty well sourced at work, seeing people on the street I’ve photographed for some sundry story or knowing the people whose businesses I frequent.

The guy at the bar-b-cue, the 20-somethings at the burrito joint, the coffee girls, the university policeman who work security at sporting events all stop me just to say hello and chew the fat for a couple of minutes. And what’s worse is that because of the comfort level of being recognized as “the camera guy,” or “the guy who gave us CDs,” it’s nice.

I wonder if I’ll miss things here, miss the people I see on a daily basis, the ones I’ve built a rapport. I wonder if I’ll be able to tell my life’s story another fucking time to some poor bastard I just met in a new city because it’s getting pretty boring to me, even the abridged versions.

Even though change has been the one constant in my life since 1989, not having had to move but once since then is great. The traveling last year didn’t do much for my comfort level, though. My wanderlust is back, and if I can’t do it overseas, I’m going to do it in this country.

My answer is always, “I’m from Miami, but I live in Columbia, South Carolina, now.” And is that one long fucking answer, or what? But the thing is, that’s what the people who are from here want me to say. They don’t want to claim me, and I sure as hell don’t want to claim this place.

- Rich