I heard a story on public radio this morning about a Czech filmmaker, called the Czech Borat. I can’t remember his name. But his latest film is apparently causing a lot of controversy. In it, he stages a series of public stunts and pranks meant to provoke the people of Czechoslovakia (which it’s done) to question their own national identity.

They described one stunt where he dressed up in lederhosen and epaulets constructed from the headlights of German-made automobiles. The whole outfit is supposed to look tacky. But it’s also supposed to be a statement on how Czechoslovakia was once occupied by Germans, before they, for whatever reason, abandoned the country. This happened all at once, apparently—they just left the country. Maybe it was when Czechoslovakia gained their independence. I don’t know. Either way: it prompted me to think about my own region-specific identity—as someone who grew up in a fairly identity-less Midwest suburb.

It’s not that the people here are personality-less. There are distinct suburban archetypes and personalities, for sure. The Soccer Mom. The Suburban Bourgeoisie. The Rich-Kid Druggies. The Poor-Kid Druggies. Churchies. And so on.

There are vast socio-economic disparities among suburbanites as well: entire Suburban enclaves. It’s not uncommon to see McMansions bordering a crowded nest of trailer homes. But most suburbanites fall somewhere in the middle of this spectrum. They live in two-storey homes in one-two children families. The parents are generally low-to-middle middle class workers. But you will occasionally find working class people scattered amongst this crowd.

It’s interesting, though, that with all this diversity—what on paper seems like a complex little community—the suburban landscape itself is so non-descript and blah. Not that I couldn’t describe it to you. On every corner is a major chain fast-food restaurant or a strip mall with major chain department stores. No Mom and Pop stores, really. Just the big-name chains that have settled into an easy suburban niche—with stores dotted along the two major roads running through town. This is the way it is in Greenwood (where I’m from). And the way it is in a lot of other suburban hellholes I’ve been to—or travelled through on vacation. We all have the same stores. The same restaurants. The mid-range Applebee’s and Cheesecake Factories. Each time a new one opens, my mom gets excited—like it’s some huge cultural event. “We just got a (insert strategically Mom-baiting name—e.g. Fudpucker’s, Ruby Tuesday, etc.)!” And you know these places are intentionally pandering to suburban baby-boomers. Why else would they name their otherwise personality-less establishments after Rolling Stones’ songs (ahem…Ruby Tuesday)? They do it because they know their target demographic and they know that all baby-boomers consider the Rolling Stones’ to be the best band that ever lived. So, of course, when they open in whatever small suburban Anywhere they’ve not yet infested, the baby-boomers will come flying, like drone-moths to a simulated flame. It’s the same when they open new stores. It’s not that these places have anything great or exceptional or new to offer. It’s the same shit. But we’ve become so inundated with these corporate establishments that we almost depend on them to define ourselves. We buy not only things with our money but our identities. We are Target. Wal-Mart. Barnes and Noble. Because when we look around these are the places and things we see. They are all we have—since these major chains have run out every smaller business and effectively killed any chance we had at individuality.

I’m not suggesting that I think a place is defined by the businesses it produces. It’s just upsetting to me that we don’t have anything to point to and call our own. There is nothing uniquely Greenwood about Greenwood. We have a mall. But a lot of places have a mall. We have quite a few Starbucks. But a lot of places have quite a few Starbucks. These things—these establishments—have almost become a given for any major town or city or suburb—like key features of the human face. And supposing all these chains add up to a composite face, what do we have to distinguish ourselves from other faces—other cities? Nothing. We can point to our retail stores or our mid-range restaurants, but to me it feels like someone saying: “Well, I’ve got a nose. And that’s what separates me from others.” These aren’t distinguishing features. Yet, we delude ourselves—we tell ourselves that they are distinguishing features. That we should be proud of our major chains and our mid-range restaurants.

We just got a Jack in the Box recently—a major chain fast-food restaurant popular on the West Coast but pretty scare here. This will be the first one I’ve seen in Indiana. Not that they don’t exist here. It’s just the first one I’ve seen here.

It hasn’t opened yet. But I can guarantee, when it does, people will flock there. A lot of people will go because they’re curious—they’ve never seen a Jack in the Box—they’ve never heard of one, so they’ll go because they want to know what the restaurant has to offer. Even if they know it offers what any other burger place has to offer (namely: burgers), they’ll go just so they can tell their friends and family members afterwards: “Yep. Went to that new Jack in the Box. It was pretty good.” Or if they didn’t like it: “Boy, I don’t see what all the fuss is about with that new Jack in the Box. I tried it—took the wife and kids. I didn’t care much for it.” And either way—whatever opinion they form—they’re still playing into the hands of these major-chain corporations who are allowed to invade whichever small suburb they like and run the colors a uniform gray all in the name of capitalism and opportunity and profit—until the entire country bleeds into one solid and continuous corporate maze, where you can’t leave one major-chain site without finding another site the next block down the road.

Another thing I think people use to inappropriately define themselves are local sports teams. I heard some guy talking recently about a European soccer team. He said it was great because it was the one thing that could unite the country. The country was apparently torn over some cultural or political conflict. And while, yes, that’s true—to a degree. I don’t feel like sports teams—at least not ones in the US—really represent the people they’re supposed to. Rarely, do professional athletes play for their own hometowns. They go to whichever team offers them the most money—and it’s usually an organization from another city. Peyton Manning has become sort of an Indianapolis icon as of late. But he’s from Tennessee. We got him because we sucked so bad that we were able to secure him as our first-round draft pick and give him enough money to play for us. But he doesn’t represent Indianapolis—beyond wearing a Colts’ jersey. He didn’t grow up here. Our city didn’t produce him. So, when he and the other Cotls (most of whom, I’m sure, aren’t from Indianapolis), it doesn’t feel like a victory for the city so much as a victory for a bunch of guys who we paid to play football for an organization based in Indianapolis. And that doesn’t really mean anything to me. Still, so many people in Indianapolis and in Indiana, in general, love the Colts. I see so many people wearing their merchandise—the jerseys, the beanies, the t-shirts—and they even dress their children in Colts’ gear. Their children, if they’re young enough, have no idea who the Colts are. But by wearing the jerseys and other Colts’ apparel they’re sending the message to others that they support the Colts and that in a significant way they are defined by their support for the Colts. And that’s just ludicrous to me. Whether you like it or not—or whether you want to admit it—what you wear says a lot about who you are as a person. It’s a way of advertising to others your interests, your background, which economic class you belong to, etc. And people have willingly chosen to let themselves be identified by the Colts—and they’ve even recruited their children. I don’t get it. I understand the appeal of sports—especially of football. I still watch it occasionally. I used to watch it regularly when I was younger. But why do people continue to buy into this misconception—this manufactured notion—that they are represented by the hometown team? We’re not seeing any of the revenue brought in by the Colts’—even when they’re winning. And by continuing to patronize this team—by buying their merchandise and going to the games or watching at home—we’re sending the message that, yes, we believe this lie.

This is all sort of disorganized and all over the place right now. I’m not going to bother going back to revise any of this because I’m too tired. I just wanted to get the initial ideas out there before I forgot. I plan to write something more coherent later.