Your Papers, Please

I once met a witty and insightful Latina immigrant who told me, "South Florida is the closest place you can live to America without needing a passport."

This is not an exaggeration.  While it may be a geological fluke that the southern tip of Florida happens to be connected to the continental United States, for all intents and purposes, SoFla is Caribbean.  My hometown is a mirror image of the Greater Antilles, with which we Miamians have more in common than with our fellow citizens in the peninsula or Panhandle.  We have 70-degree winter days and swaying palm trees, native orchids and wild parrots.  We eat Christmas dinner by the pool.  We hardly ever wear shoes.  We have freakin' mangos - mangos, for God's sake! - growing in the backyard.  And pretty much no one speaks English as their first language.  Entire neighborhoods don't speak it as their second.

This sense of being a stranger in your country of birth can happen not only in major ports of immigration like Miami, New York and San Francisco.  It is just as true when moving from one state to another.  The U.S. is comprised of such a massive swath of continent that each state is, in all practicality, its own country.  The laws are different.  The infrastructure varies considerably (try this some time for fun: drive top speed from Pagosa Springs, CO, to Chama, NM, and see if you and your tires don't notice an immediate change in road conditions the moment you see the "¡Bienvenidos a Nuevo Mexico!" sign).  Your insurance policies don't automatically transfer, even if you stay with the same company, so you suddenly have a half dozen pre-existing conditions that won't be covered now that you've relocated.  And if you are a licensed professional in one state, do not assume for one second that you can legitimately practice in another state without paying an obscene amount in fees and taking yet another irrelevant board exam about absolutely nothing you have ever learned in school or have ever done at work in 15 years in the field.

But the most disorienting aspect of interstate relocation is the difference in cultural norms.  What is thought rude in Nebraska might actually be considered a compliment in Massachusetts.  A taboo in Maryland could be completely socially acceptable in Nevada (where, let's face it, pretty much anything goes).  When my step-sister came to visit me at college in Boston with her Annie Lennox circa 1990 platinum spiked hair, an old-timer in the North End (Beantown's answer to Little Italy) walked up to her and demanded, "Hey! What's with the hair? I liked it the other way!"  "What other way?" she shot back.  "You've never seen me before in my life."  "I don't know," he teased, "but any way is better than that!"  We all died laughing.  But you simply cannot pull that shit in Omaha.

Of course, nobody tells you this explicitly.  You just have to find out the hard way when you step into a big pile of it in front of the whole damn landlocked town and the awkward silence nearly freezes your tiny fragile heart until it sticks its approval-seeking tongue to an icy metal fence post on purpose just to appease everyone because you're new and you need friends.

A Facebook friend recently shared a post from Alice 105.9 featuring a T-shirt that reads: "I don't mean to interrupt people.  I just randomly remember things and get really excited."  It didn't even occur to me that interrupting was a problem until I left the East Coast.  In fact, many people there might assume, unless you cut in every few sentences to show that you're connecting to the speaker, that: a) you're not paying attention, b) that you actually don't give a crap about what they're talking about or c) worst of all, you're completely clueless and therefore have no earthly right to be in this conversation in the first place.

Speed is one of the highest of values along the urbanized Eastern seaboard.  To stand in line for coffee at Dunkin Donuts (because no self-respecting Yankee would pay $4.75 for a cup of effin' coffee, thank you very much) at Penn Station in New York City during rush hour is to witness an ingeniously-orchestrated military operation of the highest import.  You damn well better know what it is you want, down to the last detail, long before a cashier subpoenas you from one of three customer lines, upon which you order loudly and definitively while simultaneously paying and offering a curt nod of appreciation all at once before you enter another air raid formation for pickup.  After which you get the hell out of the way, even if someone else (probably a tourist) accidentally took your drink and you're stuck with theirs.  Because tough shit, we're in a hurry here.  When I applied the same rules of engagement in the Midwest, people regarded me as a rude, pushy broad who hadn't the decency to ask how their day was going before I brazenly got right down to ordering my food like a marauding barbarian.

Cut to the chase.  Lose the foreplay.  Gimme the punchline.  What's the bottom line.  These are the rules of speech etiquette in densely-populated places where slowing down for a millisecond could cause a 16-car pileup.  A typical phone call to a family member in a big city might go something like, "Hey. Quick question: What was the name of that restaurant you were telling me about? Got it!  Thanks.  Bye."  Expediency shows the utmost respect because everyone's in a rush because there are too many damn people everywhere and you've gotta get there - the parking space, the restaurant, the show, the colonoscopy - before they do.

As writer Nick Paumgarten described it in the November 3, 2014, issue of The New Yorker, "smooth open road is so rare, at least in the denser parts of [New York City], that a lead foot can hardly resist the urge to hit the gas. In a city of lost time—there’s never enough, never enough—any chance to regain some is sweet."  But a recently reduced speed limit to 25mph in the city may impede this expediency.  "Now we demonize speed," Paumgarten writes.  "This feels funny: a city that has long identified itself as sleepless and fast, aspiring to everything lickety-split, is being asked to slow down. Slow food, slow money, now slow cars—the New York minute will henceforth be sixty seconds long."

The manic competition of an overcrowded populace for limited resources can breed not only efficiency but also, in many cases, excellence.  You are never the only game in town.  You will never be a big fish in a small pond.  And you certainly can't stick a "Gone fishing" sign on your window when business is slow.  Because it's never slow.  And if it is, then it's your own damn fault 'cause there's plenty of customers out there, you lazy bum.

But recently I've realized that operating at Autobahn in a place that moves at school zone can actually be a form of violence.  Putting more energy into things than is merited for the situation makes me uptight, irritable and impatient.  I am judgy, cranky and unkind.  I fume about how much more efficiently everything could run if people would just snap.  I become a petty tyrant inside, obsessively scheming about how to control everyone like a chess piece so they are on top of their game at all times.  I frankly get mean, if only in my own mind.

So, if I want to be all Gandhi nonviolent about things, the kindest thing I can do is to not be in a rush.  Which means first and foremost that I need to be on time and not wait until the last minute to get out the door, only to be incensed that shit isn't running like clockwork like it damn well should and everything is taking twice as long and now I'm freakin' late thanks to all you complacent Type B idiots out there.  I may have it in my mind that it should take 7 minutes to get to work.  And technically it does, between the hours of 2:17 and 4:38am, when no one is on the road.  That doesn't change the reality that it takes more like 12 because people where I now live drive the speed limit - who does this? - and don't run yellow lights.

In an informal survey from a recent Facebook post, here are a few suggestions that friends have made for avoiding the homicidality of tardiness.  Set your watch 6 minutes fast.  Calculate the time it takes to get where you need to go and leave 15-20 minutes earlier than that.  Set constant reminders on your phone.  Get everything ready the night before.  Set your clocks 10 minutes fast.  Calculate how long it takes to get where you need to go and round up by 5 minutes.  Lie to yourself that every appointment is actually 15 minutes earlier than it is.  Ask to be included on the Caribbean invitee list, which guarantees you will receive an invitation that a given event starts 2 hours earlier than it actually does in hopes that you and your fellow islanders might be on time.

I've been giving some of these suggestions a try of late.  They really do work.  And you know what?  I'm a nicer person for it.  I take my time with things more and make mistakes less.  I hold the door for people more often.  I let other cars in more readily when they need to merge.  I even let people cut in front of me in line if they seem rushed.  I'm more Dalai Lama "kindness is my religion" about things.  In fact, this has become a new morning prayer to start my day: "May I be especially kind to myself and others today."  It's not every day that I live up to this vision, but at least I am amenable to cultivating the conditions that might make it more possible.

Best of all, the thing I feared hasn't happened.  I haven't lost my urban edge.  I am still an exceptionally high-energy person, but now that energy runs smoothly and sustainably rather than fast-furious-crash-rematch.  I continue to stay on top of style trends.  I love a noisy, boisterous crowd.  I regularly shave and depilate, even in the winter.  One-liners flow freely from my lips.  As does profanity, which is another point of divergence in cultural norms.

That is one heart-warming touch of home I agonizingly miss now that I'm living inland.  To me, people from SoFla use the perfect ratio of profanity. It is part of our festive humor, our stress relief and our vida loca zest for life.  Profanity amongst family, friends and close associates is a sign of bonding and respect, and an aptly-timed f-bomb demonstrates wit, pluck and mental acuity.  Swearing is also a convenient shortcut to more descriptive, thoughtful language, which works swimmingly amid the time-strapped.  And it's just darn good fun.

Before I relocated to the Southwest, I had never before lived in a place where so many people were so offended by swearing, and frankly, it still drives me...wait for it...bat shit crazy.  I actually feel less trust toward people who never cuss, as though perhaps they are not being honest somehow.  As though they pretend not to fart in public or have sex with the lights on ever.  Because, really, who doesn't have evil world domination fantasies and other twisted crap going through their head sometimes?

Wait, kindness is my...  Oh, fuck it.  I don't have time for this shit.