Contemplating ‘Culture’

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I’ve begun to notice that cultural anthropology has a tendency to be
very external in nature. The analysis of what makes an area’s “culture”
is often performed by someone who has no childhood connection to that
place. And yet, time and time again, experts on an “area” call upon
their experience with these locals–people who have a decidedly close
connection to the aforementioned culture. I thought to myself–if a
matadorian stumbled upon my village, what would I tell them about local
customs? What would they see?

The answer, or more importantly the lack thereof, told me a lot about how I perceive culture.

Perhaps the greatest benefit given to my travels was the decision to “come back”. “Putting Down Roots” would be the Matador profile setting. However you say it, I’ve spent almost nine months defining “home” as something decidedly smaller than “the world”.

Ultimately, I don’t think it has made me any less cosmopolitan. On the contrary, I’m beginning to wonder what my definition of “culture” ever was. In blogs such as this, I avoid identifying the exact town in which I now live. The reason is not because I’m concerned about privacy or a tourism rush, but because it’s not a “place” to me, it’s an idea. Ideas are often crushed and misinterpreted when they are compared to geometric constants. I don’t want other people to “wiki” the place, analyze it and crush my ideas.

I’m selfish like that.

Truth be told, there is no silver bullet to Western Wisconsin (besides Coors…har). Lutefisk? Sure, it’s a tied to the scandinavian roots of the early settlers, but it’s only a novelty. Besides, many of the early settlers were french fur traders and german immigrants. Bars? There are a lot, but I would be doing a discredit to the number of non-/home-drinkers by saying that everyone here is constantly pickled. We like our bars, but plenty of people are content to drink Mountain Dew while watching the NASCAR race.

What about industries? Traditions? Ethnic makeup? Who are these people that I call my countrymen? My neighbors? My friends?

These are tough questions that I repeatedly find myself unable to attack with the same veracity as I would in Guatemala or Germany. There, I feel no shame in generalizing–Guatemalans are short and dark, europeans are white and tall. Guatemala–bad beer, good drugs. Germany–bad drugs, good beer. Intersperse a few conflicts and other historical facts and *poof*, we have a culture.

It is this style of “culturizing” that I am incapable of doing to my hometown.

And so I’m beginning to find myself drawn to the exceptions to the cultural rules. To a Matadorian, I could point out the “Uff-Da!” market and cafe’ in Westby, drive them through fields of Guernsey cows creating the world best cheese (f*&k you Vermont, California), and top it off with Friday Fish Fry. There you go–there’s Wisconsin.

But there’s a small bar in a non-descript spot off highway 21, with cheap beer and a regular room full of exceptions. An old railroad worker who went through a messy divorce. A one-handed fur trapper who doesn’t like to pick fights, but somehow always ends up in them.  A former marine-turned-plumber who slaps the bar and yells, “Semper FI!” When he’s had too much. They’re renowned for their volleyball leagues in summer, their dart team in the fall. The owner is a tough old Wisconsinite who is now a millionaire–but you wouldn’t know it. He drives used cars, wears Wal-Mart clothes, and walks with a slight limp as a result of the diabetes he refuses to properly aknowledge. He has worked hard his whole life, and runs a business that still offers pints for $1.25.

That’s my Wisconsin. An unidentifiable mass of fascinating characters. Sort of like a tumor, only less frightening.

So this January, when I find myself in England, I think I’m going to stop caring about finding the culture. Instead, I’m just going to care about finding people and, maybe, sharing a little bit of my home with them.