Wellsville, NY. The smallest town I’d ever lived in. Before that, it was cities. And then we moved inland, to a town of about 3,000, in the middle of farm country, hunting country. If I talked about Germany, or New Zealand, California, or even Rhode Island, my classmates would call me a snob. They thought I was talking down to them. But those other places: they were reference points. They contained all my stories. I didn’t know this place. I didn’t ride my bike to school, or walk, or take a train. We lived on a highway. My brother drove the family car, and I took the school bus, for the first time–through town, and all around–hills, farms…The ride was quiet, punctuated by lurching halts and starts, the hiss of the doors opening and closing. Someone waiting next to their mailbox. Someone trudging up their long driveway. Once, during hunting season, we drove past a horse standing in a paddock with the word ‘HORSE’ spray painted in florescent orange across his side. I broke the customary silence with a “Woah”, and the kid behind me said, “Yeah, well, city people…come out from Buffalo so drunk they’ll shoot at anything that moves.”

Published by msdeer

I am an interdisciplinary artist, slightly incognito here.

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