When I moved out here to the country near the state line, I thought I was going to be living the dream. All I wanted was a quiet, cozy home fit to raise a family. I thought I would have the sweetest little house in rural Nebraska, but just this week, I realized that might not be the case.
I was sitting on my porch, listening to the fireflies and enjoying the night air, when it dawned on me. I’m not sure where the state line is. There are no signs. And the realtor didn’t specify this house was in Nebraska. I might live in Kansas, and it scares me.
Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Kansas, but I need to know where I live.
When you’re unsure where the border is, there is a lot about your regional identity that becomes a question mark. Am I supporting the right college football team? Should I be outraged by governor Pete Ricketts’ tax reforms? Or if I should be peeved at governor Laura Kelly’s education budget?
I just want to know what the heck state this is.
So much corn surrounds me, so for all I know I could be in Iowa, but I would never live in that shithole.
Is it okay for liquor stores to be open past 11:00 p.m. under state law? Should I appreciate the patriotic beauty of the western meadowlark as my state bird? These are the questions burning in my mind as I contemplate my location within the union.
You don’t know uncertainty until you ask yourself whether a conviction of vehicular manslaughter would land you in the El Dorado Correctional Facility or the Tecumseh State Correctional Institution.
This is a crisis of identity.
I’ve been a proud Nebraskan for all my life, but once I hire a surveyor to inspect the local geography, I might have to accept that I’m a resident of the Sunflower State. And whatever the outcome, I’ll be proud to call myself a man of either Kansas or Nebraska, the two most wonderful states in the nation!
