Being considered a “carpetbagger” is pejorative. You are looked upon as an opportunistic outsider.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carpetbagger
The term was coined during the reconstruction period after the Civil War. It was applied mostly to well meaning Yankees (no, not God’s Baseball Team) who came South to exploit their own agenda and piss off the locals. Although the Boys from the Bronx still manage to piss off a lot of Southerners every baseball season.
You most often hear the carpetbagger term used today in political commentary, referring to a candidate who moves into an area just to run for political office.
I’m suggesting that we should reexamine the denotation of the term and possibly adjust the connotation.
Recently, I spotted two separate license plates in one outing that triggered my insecurity over my “Carpetbagger” status.
No mistaking the taunting reminder of this mystical message sitting right in front of me at one long light.
But this second one in the parking lot next to me that same outing really got me thinking.
And I wondered if maybe the Universe was trying to tell me something.
I moved to Northern Colorado in spring of 2017.
I’ve now lived a Dog’s year in this wonderful area.
For tax residency purposes, I’m well past the 183 day mark. https://www.investopedia.com/terms/1/183-day-rule.asp
There are many different opinions about what converts one from a “visitor” to a “local.”
But, no matter where you find yourself now, if you have lived any life worth living, you carry your past with you as proudly as possible.
For example, I will always consider myself a BIC (“Bronx Irish Catholic”) [Riverdale subset] even though I permanently left Da Bronx and arguably, through apostasy and longtime druidic practices, left the Church (although my Harvard [extremely Catholic] lawyer – Pete “Buck” Sheridan [yes, from WTLLM], retained by the divine intercession of my poor devout and dead mother, is laboring mightily on my appeal. Good luck Pete. Given the spooky season, I refer all to that final scene in the Exorcist at the bottom of the long stairway between Father Dyer and the finger wiggling Father Damien Karras – https://www.cbr.com/exorcist-ending-explained/) But I will take my BIC label to the grave and beyond.
I also consider myself a Northern Coloradan, indeed, a Berthoudan (or Berthoudian).
But it wasn’t a quick or easy transition.
When I first wrote The Wise Ass a few years back, I immersed myself in the feeling that I had experienced moving from the overcrowded, overbuilt and never sleeping New York City to an open spaced, bucolic rural area with no discernable sidewalks or streetlights, and lots of wildlife I had only seen in zoos.
For me, it was suddenly Life on Mars.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Life_on_Mars_(British_TV_series)
But I acclimated to, and then fell in love with, the area, especially the property I now fondly refer to as Casa Claire.
And that all resulted from my meeting and befriending Claire the Mule. Which led to my writing in the first place, and made it successful.
So, I channeled my Bx/NoCo fish out of water experience into the book via the jaded eyes of one Jimmy (McCarthy) Moran. Since I never expected anyone to actually read TWA, except maybe my children when they came upon it in a drawer after I’m dead, I didn’t really worry about what I wrote.
But once it was written, and then published, I was suddenly worried that my lead character’s visceral responses to his lovely new hometown, channeled purely for dramatic purposes, would piss off the local NoCo brethren. What Carpetbagger had the right to talk about the magical and mystical properties of NoCo?!
I had images of torches and pitchforks infiltrating my nightmares for the few hours I actually sleep any given night.
Turns out, the locals responded in the warm wonderful way that wonderful people do, they embraced the story on the fictional basis presented and enjoyed the depiction of the area through Jimmy Moran’s Bronx colored glasses. I’ve included a few random selections from TWA’s Amazon reviews.
And, last month, I was honored to be included in the first ever Berthoud Literary Festival.
https://thewisenovelist.com/first-berthoud-literary-festival/
https://thewisenovelist.com/literarily-woodstocking-berthoud/
And when I went through the governing document,
I spotted the following description:
https://thewisenovelist.com/berthoud-literary-festival-home-again/
Now, placing on my lawyer hat for one second, this was taken from an official town publication. So, while it is only an isolated representation, I hope that there will someday be enough official paperwork describing me as a “local Berthoud writer” to provide me with the Kris Kringle defense, establishing my Berthoud Bona Fides.
But, until that day comes, despite the taunting DMV messages I am seeing all around me, I’m hanging my Carpetbagger hat on its final hook, and shedding all sense of interloper status.
Once and for all, I am proud to attest that I am a local Berthoud writer.
Does that change my acronym to BICB? I’ll let that simmer.
Now, my NoCo day is calling to me. Time to get a move on.
You fine, five readers get that last cuppa caffeine down the hatch and embrace your Tuesday – Monday is in the rearview. Get out there and be productive, if only to make sure your Friday is free for fun and other magical things.
I’m heading out to cuddle some kitties and make my rounds – in Berthoud.
But, no matter what else we get up to, let us all make today a great one.
