The Chariot of Desire: Indiana Intermission
October 25, 2017
There’s a different kind of pride where I’m from. It’s not like other states: “We’re from New York, we’re tough!” or, “We’re from Texas, we like things big!” It’s more like, “We’re from Indiana, and we’re gonna move.”
—Jim Gaffigan
Indiana is no place to stay. I say this in spite of the people who happily stay in Indiana, to live and work and raise children and buy quality handcrafted Amish furniture. But when I say, “Indiana is no place to stay,” I’m representing two opinions: 1) mine; and 2) the opinion reflected in Indiana’s official motto, “Crossroads of America.” I could be misinterpreting the motto, but it appears to me that the state of Indiana is advertising itself as a featureless buffer zone through which travelers must pass on their way to a destination beyond the state. If Indiana wanted people to stay longer than the time it takes to drive across its borders, maybe the motto would be something like, “Where America Comes Together.” But that wouldn’t be true, anyway. “Crossroads of America” is appropriate and accurate. Indeed, the state quarter features the state motto along with a racecar, as if to say, “We recommend traversing our state as quickly as possible.”
From age 10, I grew up in Indiana. I lived about an hour from Chicago after living across the street from the city’s boundary line for the first decade of my life. If you had to put me in a corner, I’m more Chicagoan than Hoosier—I cheer for Chicago’s sports teams and yearn for Chicago-style pizza. But I don’t mind calling myself a Hoosier. There’s a special power that comes from being from Indiana, a power that you’d never really know until you leave Indiana, tell someone you’re from Indiana, and witness the winds of ignorance blow over their expressionless face like waves of sand sifting over the Indiana Dunes.
Within my first few weeks living outside Indiana, a young woman in Utah asked where I was from. I told her I was from Indiana. “Oh,” she replied, “I’ve heard of that.” I began to perceive that special power bestowed upon all Hoosiers abroad: anonymity. Saying you’re from Indiana when you’re in a place anywhere in the United States other than Indiana is as meaningful as saying your favorite color is blue: nothing can be deduced, and no judgments can be passed. Even after living in Utah on and off for a decade, I still prefer to claim Indiana as my place of origin. It forces non-Hoosiers to disqualify the presumptuous generalizations of geography. As soon as it’s revealed that I’m from Indiana, folks climb into a mental racecar and speed over the featureless buffer zone of conversation that instantly appears in front of them: “So what brings you here, then?”
An alternative followup response I’ve never gotten is, “Tell me more about Indiana.” That instinct doesn’t seem to exist in people. As I write this, I’m still torn over whether that’s more a statement on Indiana or on people, but I lean toward the latter. Our curiosity has a narrow focus when we meet someone new. It’s as though we’re ticking the boxes of an invisible checklist as we go along, hoping that we mutually arrive at a comfortable destination as quickly as possible. There’s a small risk to going off-script. What if Indiana is boring? What if I know nothing about Indiana, and it shows? Indiana is no place to stay. It’s no place at all. So what brings you here, then?