Coming Out of the Closet

I was raised in Chicago and studied English at the University of Chicago. I spent four years reading the prose of Milton, Shakespeare, Blake, Longfellow, and Hawthorne. After graduation, I joined an investment firm and for about 18 years I prospered, living a quite life. I drove a Volvo, listened to classical music, attended wine tasting parties, and visited art galleries.

It wasn't until age 40 that I realized: I was a closet redneck. Oh sure, for years I had these feelings I couldn't explain. I yearned to chew tobacco and drink cheap beer. I had these times when all I wanted to do was be with a tractor. On the weekends, I'd sit for hours watching NASCAR, drinking beer, and eating BBQ. I had trouble getting along with my friends from the University of Chicago.

I found myself feeling at home in blue jeans and a Johnny Cash T-shirt. I listened to the music of Jerry Jeff Walker, Tim McGraw and Reba. I started going to the local honky-tonk bar on occasion.

I had an American Flag painted on everything I owned and put most of my money into guns and ammunition. I sold my Volvo and bought a pickup truck. I quit the job and moved to New Mexico.

I had this strange, distant feeling within. From deep inside me, somewhere between the conscious and the subconscious, something seemed to be saying, "Drive to Alabama." It was sort of a redneck version of the calling Richard Dreyfuss had in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind." I yearned for a meal of ham, biscuits, sausage links, black-eyed peas, and cornbread.

Finally, I felt I could go public with everything, get everything off my chest. So, after formally joining the National Rifle Association, I called my dad back in Chicago and told him, "Dad, I'm a redneck. I know you and mom may not be able to accept that, but that's the way I am. I've even started seeing some friends from Texas." Of course, my dad was shocked; he's never been able to fully accept it. Still, I feel like it's better to be open about it. It's more honest.