Opinion & Comment

TN Redneck In Cheesehead Land Find Those Who Speak His Language

APPALACHIAN NOTEBOOK - Steve Oden

“(Expletive deleted) the Ritalin!” screamed the young man in dreadlocks, reciting his poetry during open microphone literary artist’s night at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. The sprawling Student Union building on the shore of Lake Mendota was filled with professors, graduate students, and aspiring writers, all waiting their turn to dazzle the audience with talent… or lack, there of.

Beer, draft and bottled, sloshed at scores of café tables as a student-operated bar did brisk business. The University of Wisconsin, after all, must work hard to maintain its reputation as one of the Top 10 party schools. This includes selling brew on campus and apparently hosting the most pubs, bars, and taverns per square block of any school in the nation.

The young man screamed again, “(Expletive deleted) the Ritalin!” He seemed to be working toward a crescendo, although his poem had only one verse.

I noticed, at many of the tables, men held hands with men, women sat with arms wrapped around each other, and in the shadowy side-stage areas other things seemed to be going on.

“(Expletive deleted) the Ritalin!” The young poet bowed to polite applause and exited the stage. His place at the microphone was taken by two Goth-garbed girls who sang a lesbian love song with words evoking vivid imagery.

My group of rural American visitors to Cheesehead Land broke for the door. It’s not that we are prudes or unworldly. College graduates all, we recalled halcyon days of youth when parties involved kegs and football… but this was something else. I had expected to hear students reciting Whitman or Tennyson, perhaps the odd haiku, or an ode to nature. We were unprepared for X-rated, profanity-laced free verse.

Outside the Student Union, we found tables and chairs on a large veranda overlooking the university’s yacht club. Our host apologized: “You must understand that the current definition of Madison is 20 square miles of Wisconsin surrounded on all sides by reality. We are, indeed, the beating heart of ultra-liberalism.”

Our group numbered 26 visitors to the University of Wisconsin. We represented diverse rural communities from across the continent: Salmon River, Idaho; Blackwell, Oklahoma; Flasher, North Dakota; Sierra Vista, Arizona; Albion, Indiana; Greenwood, Delaware; DeFuniak Springs, Florida; and various parts of the Appalachian Region.

We shared common roots, however. Whether hailing from an Indian reservation in the High Desert or beef cattle country in the Grain Belt, members of our group held common beliefs about the value of rural America, the importance of families, and the virtues of growing up and living in small communities. Yes, you could say we were conservative in outlook, but our type of “C” is not the type associated with political parties. Our “C” comes from the way we were raised.

“Reckon that boy’s mama knows he is talking like that?” asked a South Carolina gal when we discussed the Ritalin-adverse poet.

“She’d wash his mouth out with soap!” chimed a North Dakota mother of several teens, who said one of her favorite pastimes was accompanying her sons on deer hunts in the snow.

“I gut ‘em and drag ‘em,” she said proudly. “Next thing I do is cook ‘em!”

This started us swapping venison and wild game recipes. Many in the group were either hunters themselves or married to hunters. We began to spin outdoor yarns, regional in flavor but hilarious.

I noticed people at nearby tables staring when we talked about blood trailing a deer, coon hunting, or shooting squirrels out of hickory trees. A professorial type, sporting a stringy ponytail and scraggly beard, said, loud enough for us to hear, something about “savages from the outlands and their disgusting blood sports.”

A member of our group, who shall remain nameless, asked if he knew what the letters meant in PETA?

The punch line was: “People Eating Tender Animals.” The long-haired liberal didn’t think it was funny and stalked off in a huff.

The tables around us began to empty, as if someone had labeled our group cave people, cannibals, or worse. Soon, we had the entire veranda to ourselves. The talk and fellowship went on for hours. I regaled the “flatlanders” with Appalachian tales about rooster fights, twisting squirrels out of hollow trees, “grabbling” for catfish, famous hounds, and Tennessee Volunteer football. I was regaled back with delightful regional stories.

Later during our visit, we met real Wisconsin cheese-heads, Badger state natives who breathe and bleed Green Bay Packer football (and proudly wear the yellow plastic cheese hats). They love grilled bratwurst, know what part of the cow that milk comes from, and are keen on ice fishing and deer hunting… those horrible “blood sports.”

We got along fine with them, too. Yankees or not, they talked our language.