De-plated

I lost part of my identity today.

I’ve been putting it off ever since I arrived in Montana. Blamed my delay on not having the proper documents. But, really, that was just a welcome excuse.

“When you going to get those plates changed?” The highway patrolman that I see when reporting car accidents on I-90 would always ask.

“I’m waiting for my dad,” I would say.

“What do you mean you’re waiting for your dad? No you’re not. You have to take care of this yourself.”

“No, you don’t understand. He has the title. I can’t do anything without it.”

Once the title to the car arrived in the mail, I knew I could no longer put it off. I had to get Montana plates.

When I first arrived here, one of the local bigwigs (who reminds me a lot of Michael Burns for those of you who know him) told me I should get rid of my New York plates immediately. He said people don’t like to see out-of-state plates. He said they wouldn’t be as apt to trust me. Essentially, he was saying I wouldn’t fit in.

Part of me likes not fitting in, especially here. This town is filled with gun-toting conservatives who swear on the Bible while they curse at their children. That’s obviously a gross hyperbole, but it accurately describes enough of the people I encounter.

I liked to be able to drive away from an event that I was covering and through my rearview mirror watch the person I had just interviewed stare in awe at my New York plate.

“I knew he was different,” I imagine them saying. I feel like it gave me a certain sense of legitimacy. It also excused me when I ran into things that I didn’t know. It gave me pardon when someone had to explain how to find Dry Creek, for instance.

“Oh, you’re not an idiot. You’re just not from here.”

Now my strongest sense of identity comes from my New Yorker magazine. I get a real kick out of picturing Liz, who works in the post office, saying something like “oh, the New Yorker is here.”

She’s not saying that the magazine is here, she’s simply reaffirming my presence in the town.

Now whenever I pull into a lot, my car will blend in. I might even have trouble finding it when I go to leave.

Eventually I’ll become one of those people who meets an easterner and says “I used to live in the East.”

Now I live in Montana. I’m here indefinitely and definitely here.

Comments welcome,
Andrew