Eastwick: A Glimpse

When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to get out of Smalltown, SouthernUSA. I hated living in a place where everybody knew my name and everything I did. I also hated living in a place that worshipped conformity and frowned at diversity. Anyone not willing to conform to Smalltown’s values, mores, and belief systems, was thrown to the Wolves of Ostracizia—a very lonely place indeed. And yet, here I am in Eastwick—a virtual replica of that town my long-ago self vowed to leave. Why?

Well, that’s a story for another day. Today’s story is more a play off Alexandra’s—a glimpse into life in towns like Eastwick, towns where people like us (dirty liberals!) just don’t fit in but continue to live, hoping and dreaming that maybe, just maybe, one day…awww, who are we kidding…we’re going to get burned at the stake!

Nonetheless, welcome to Eastwick:

Eastwick is in the “Bible Belt.” We still have laws that prevent the purchase of alcoholic beverages on Sunday. Why? Because Sunday is the Sabbath, of course, and you shouldn’t be imbibing on the Sabbath! We also have laws that prevent stores from opening before 1 p.m. on Sundays. Why? Again, because it’s the Sabbath, and you should be in church, not out shopping!

When I first moved down to Smalltown from Boston way back in ’89, I experienced extreme culture shock—even though I was a kid. One of the first stigmas I experienced was the social stigma attached to Catholicism in the South. Much to our surprise, we quickly found that one of the first questions people in our new town (the one just like Eastwick) asked upon first meeting you was “What church do you go to?” And when your response was “I’m Catholic,” you were greeted by a look of disgust, accompanied by sympathetic, “Oh, I see,” which was immediately followed by an invitation to that person’s Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian, whatever Church. As I got older, I visited many different churches in our town. I went with friends to their congregations' Sunday services. In high school, I went with a boyfriend to his Southern Baptist church. During the sermon (which never ceased to amaze and frighten a girl who’d grown up Catholic), the preacher jumped around, stomping his feet and waving his fists, screaming about who was going to Hell and for what. Then, he began to stress the importance of missionary work. One of the reasons more people from this congregation needed to sign up to go to Africa: “We have to get in there and save these heathens’ souls before the Catholics get to them first and ruin ‘em!” As I left, he shook my hand, and said he hoped I’d enjoyed the sermon and would be back. I said, “My whole family is Catholic. Has been since they got off the boat.” He gave me that look, and no doubt, next week they prayed for my poor, misguided Catholic soul.

Also, when I first moved down here, I heard the “N-word” for the first time. I didn’t know what it meant. I learned quickly, though. And I watched my first KKK march. My mother, sister, and I were downtown shopping in a dress shop. All of a sudden you could hear all this stomping out on the street. It literally shook the floor of the shop. My sister and I ran out to the window to see what was going on. We saw a long line of Ku Klux Klan members marching down Main Street. They were fully decked out in the costumes and everything, even pulling little children along with them. My mother pulled my sister away from the window, but my sister’s curiosity was piqued: “Mom, why are all those people wearing dunce caps? Were they bad?” She didn’t know about the KKK. I did; I learned about it in history, and that’s what I thought it was: history.

And that’s enough storytelling for one day. Perhaps tonight I shall head to Downtown Eastwick and partake in the beer and wine at the blasphemous, immoral music festival.