Back in the early 90s, SNL introduced Pat, an androgynous character whose whole schtick was the inability of others to determine their gender. Is Pat a boy? A girl? Something in between? All of the above? What’s Pat short for? Patricia? Patrick? Nope, it’s Paaaaaaaaat! Removing today’s lens from yesterday’s view of the world for a second (gender topics tend to spark…controversy), does it matter? I mean, are you planning to treat your coworker Pat differently if they are male versus female? In what way? Why? And is that necessary? Will their answer affect you at all, change anything between the two of you, or are you just curious? Have you considered just letting Pat be Pat, as that is who Pat clearly wants to be?

Life is a spectrum and for so much of it, I take pleasure in bouncing down the middle, a foot on either side of the line, whatever lines you’re drawing. I knock on a lot of doors, try on all the hats, sample the selections, test drive the options, always reserving the right to swing any direction. As a kid, I might have been considered a girlish tomboy. Do people even use that term anymore, tomboy?

The first time I ever chose to wear a skirt I was in like 9th grade, and it was an EVENT. I remember feeling like a clown the entire time. I’m still a tomboy according to the Dictionary and Wikipedia, if that word helps paint you a picture. I love those “noisy activities traditionally associated with boys,” and I don’t dress particularly feminine or masculine, though over time I’ve cycled through like 8000 different looks up and down the spectrum, 400 of which I can actually pull off. But I’ve always felt most comfortable floating around in the gray, a characteristic I’ve heard people express as a negative one. You know, the whole you got to stand for something or you’ll fall for anything trope. 

But is that really true? One of my earliest tattoos is the refrain from a Lesley Choyce poem:

I’m alive, I believe in everything, 
I’m alive, I believe in it all. 

There’s room for us all, dude. At least in my world. Besides, the only way you can even have a spectrum is if there are multiple data points along it. Can you imagine just one giant dot, all of us piling onto the same spot? Oof. Suffocating. Boring. The worst. 

So, I dabble. Even my hard lines are dotted when you zoom in real close. Years ago my sister asked me to attend her confirmation in a church as an adult, and I was like, churches aren’t my thing. Her (now) husband kindly pointed out that this wasn’t about me, it was to support my sister and what did I think was going to happen when I walked into the church, go poof? But the game changing piece of information my sister shared with me, something her deacon said to her, which made me trust him sight unseen and sign up for some time within his walls: Have enough faith in your own religion to let me have faith in mine.

Well Deacon X, whose name neither of us can remember, well played. Obviously I believe in it all, it permanently says so on my body. So to church for Tessa I went, and no I did not go poof, though the thought of doing so was extraordinary imagery, more than enough to get me through the service in tact.

These little things about us, these big things, outward, inward, and everything in between, all come together to color how we interact with those around us; how we’re perceived, how we feel around those we perceive to be a certain way. People are strange, when you’re a stranger, faces look ugly, when you’re alone**. And in an increasingly politically charged climate, it’s why I absolutely adore being from a purple state.

Because I’m a goddamn mystery.

States carry stereotypes; whether conscious or not, everyone has a gut reaction when they hear someone say: I’m from California or I’m from New York or I’m from Texas or I’m from Alabama. Your brain probably created an idea of each of these people just now, and I’m not even referring to actual people, yet you feel you know something about them. And that makes sense. People often live in places that embody their values. And in Wisconsin, I get to be everything. I get to be it all.

I remember a time when politics weren’t such a huge part of our identity. When we didn’t really talk about it the way we do now. We didn’t fly politically affiliated flags year round or wear loud clothing supporting candidates, maybe a tiny button at most. It was kind of a private thing actually, not everything we are, our entire personality, and “moderate” on dating apps didn’t mean you definitely owned a MAGA hat. Which brings me to the power of the Wisconsin license plate. What an unexpected, lovely gift. 

I feel safe traveling anywhere in the country with the plates of America’s Dairyland, welcomed crossing any state line. Which is especially important to feel as a solo female running around the deep south, (women seem wicked, when you’re unwanted**) my wariness of “the deep south” stemming from a combination of actual facts sprinkled with historical fiction and a hefty helping of personal imagination, and I feel particularly astute for recognizing that.

When people see me roll in, I imagine casting out a neutral, well what’s going on with that one, vibe. Hard to tell, isn’t it? Wisconsin license plates, comically blue tonka truck, rooftop tent with stickers all over the map, is she one of those preppers? Just an outdoor enthusiast? City girl? Country? That’s some interesting hair. What is she wearing? Well would you look at that beautiful dog. I can’t hear people’s thoughts, obviously this is all in my head, but also, is it?

If I’m going for anything, it’s being difficult to put in a box. Is she on my side? Does she play for my team? The other team? Does she live across the aisle? Over the fence? How far into enemy territory? Straight, gay, red, blue, meat-eater, vegan, city girl, country gal, college-educated, tradeswoman, who knows. All could be true.

Without certain context clues, or perhaps because of all the conflicting ones, I’ve found people’s computers tend to revert to their default setting, which is generally to be kind. I’m working on caring less about how I come off and caring more about just being. (A woman once turned around and exclaimed, “Oh!….Your hair!” A memory that brings me as much joy today as it did then.)

Not only can I not control the conclusion your internal committee is going to reach, but as it turns out, those extremely big important things that make up who we are? They don’t really matter when we’re going to interact for a total of 10 minutes within the massive Venn diagram of life.

I’m not marrying you or asking you to be a part of my family or to move into my house. We don’t need to raise children together, share finances or even one single meal; but we’re out here enjoying the same damn thing right now, so that’s one tick under the You’re Awesome column.

We’re probably going to talk about my dog or the weather or some random thought that popped into my head just as you were passing, all three if we’re lucky, and then go our separate ways, in all probability, for the rest of the days of our lives. I will never see you again. Is it too much to ask for an old fashioned, delightful non-stranger danger interaction? I’ll be whoever you need me to be, for you not to be an asshole to me. I’ve exhausted my allotted energy defending my beliefs. Today, I just want to co-exist.  

It’s hard to argue against the idea that we could all use (give + receive + witness) a little more kindness, especially when dealing with difference. An astronomically large part of me travels because I am afraid. I’m afraid, and I need to go places that scare me, and I need to have great experiences in these places to remind myself that the monster lives mostly in my head. And that people everywhere are pretty much the same (i.e. human), just living in different areas with different thoughts and trials and tribulations, often driven by their natural (+ manmade) ecosystems, and the ways they’ve adapted to survive in those places. 

There are infinite ways to do life. Not just the way I’m doing it.

One time we were hitching into town for a resupply on the Appalachian Trail and a woman in a pickup truck who looked like she knew a thing or two about survival stopped for us; the first thing she asked as she sped off, after going through her impressive credentials in theology, was an aggressive southern drawled out, Do you believe in Jesus Christ? Yes ma’am, I do today. In fact, for as long as I’m in the back seat of your car, I’ll believe anything you want me to. Now’s not the time to prove anything or make sure my perspective gets a voice. Her perception of me doesn’t change who I am as a person.

It’s tricky though. I’m actively working on not giving a shit about the stories people tell themselves that I can’t control, they have a right to connect whatever dots they want, but the internal dialogue and self-questioning is quite constant. Just a few weeks ago I had a ridiculous conversation with myself over the simple act of adhering a South Carolina sticker to my rooftop tent. Ooo, is this something I want representing me? What will people think when they see it? Will they apply too much meaning, read too much into it? Get the wrong idea? Can a sticker even imply the wrong idea? What’s the wrong idea anyway? Not that there’s anything wrong with South Carolina. 

In reality, the SC sticker has nothing to do with the actual state of South Carolina at all, that’s just where I happened to be when Tom Weaver said girl, you better get off that highway, after my friend Erica (in a last ditch effort to save my life) tapped in her dad (Tom Weaver’s not a cry wolf kind of guy, so if he’s concerned, you probably should consider it), knowing that instead of seeking immediate help, my stubbornness was trying to get me just two short hours away to Wilmington, NC, where a friend I met in Belize offered to take a look at my rapidly deteriorating mechanical issues. See, I wasn’t ignoring them, I was being frugal.

Then I discovered I had no brakes while sandwiched between two semi-trucks with my hazards on, a place I don’t like being under regular circumstances, and I was particularly grateful for Erica’s quick problem-solving skills (everyone needs at least one Erica in their circle), having sent me directions to the two closest AutoZones just a finger tap away, navigating me through the next 12 terrifying minutes of losing control of my car that was unable to stop at the three red lights and now on fire from repeatedly trying the brakes, because THAT’S HOW STOPPING USED TO WORK, smoke + flames, I still don’t know how I made it in one piece.

But I did. To Florence, South Carolina. That’s where they met me at the door with a fire extinguisher (ooo boy, did they see me coming) + zero eye contact as they sprayed away, knowing this was way beyond their skillset. No, I needed AG, a mobile mechanic who, when he’s not out servicing the local auto community, works at the AutoZone three days a week. My lucky (Satur)day.

Sure, I waited over four hours for him to get there, that’s okay, not like I could go anywhere, besides, I was still high on the happy to be alive feeling, and I was his 9th call that day. When he finally jacked up my car in the parking lot, touched the front left wheel and it basically fell off on its own, he looked at me with wide eyes. That’s not good. That’s real bad. You’re one lucky lady. My wheel bearing was in two pieces, which basically means MY ENTIRE WHEEL ALMOST FELL OFF GOING 80 MPH ON THE INTERSTATE. Ah yes. In hindsight the sequence of issues all made sense. This is where I proceeded to tell AG how I can’t decide if I’m the unluckiest lucky, or luckiest unlucky person I know. I wasn’t ignoring anything, I was very aware, just trying to buy more time. Feels like a life lesson in there somewhere.

AG, the professional that he is, navigated colder than normal temps, an intense wind fueled downpour, rapidly approaching nightfall, and layers upon layers of northern rust on an 18 year old vehicle you just don’t see down south, eventually replaced my wheel bearing, my caliper and both front brakes, all from the AutoZone parking lot for the extremely low price of what felt like next to nothing for like five hours of labor, with firm instructions to get the other wheel bearing replaced as soon as I got back to Wisconsin. Turns out the sounds of old actually were the sounds of something wrong. 

So on my way out of South Carolina, (because yes, AG and I agreed my three week trip had reached it’s natural conclusion, if this wasn’t a sign, we didn’t know what was, though when Tom Weaver caught wind of that, he was like What? Why? You’re golden now girl!) I stopped at a gas station, bought the only sticker that made sense as a souvenir of the past 24 hours, and now when I look at it, I feel nothing but glorious flipping gratitude. So that’s what South Carolina is doing up there. It’s part of my story.

Tucked right in between Bigfoot, a rooster (free range), several versions of the Great Lakes (unsalted & shark free), Marfa Rocks!, It’s Bitchin’ in Bingen! (WA), state parks from all over, more than a few national scenic trails (some I’ve hiked, some I’ve yet to), an old man playing the banjo, a couple mushrooms holding hands (I’ve got morels!) and a human equality sticker, South Carolina just adds to the mystery. Well, for you. I know who I am.

**People are Strange by the Doors has haunted me ever since I pretended to be sleeping on the couch, ailed with chicken pox at six-years-old while someone was watching The Lost Boys. Also explains my early fascination with vampires way before they were cool. Christopher Pike’s The Last Vampire series? Spicy.