Moving On

not going to happen

They tell you to ‘move on.’  It is not my nature or training to do so.  What I mean by this trope or phrase or whatever you want to call them is the intransitive version – Oxford English Dictionary: “To continue to move; to restart one’s journey, advance to another place; (figurative) to develop, to progress from one stage, subject, etc., to another.  Frequently with to.”  One should note that this phrase is frequently in the imperative, that is, to be in a place where one has been too long and should get on by leaving.  Police officers and others often use it to tell someone else they no longer belong in this particular space (locationally, verbally, emotionally, or even in its widest meaning).

Mainers (many of those who call themselves such) like to think that Maine is a more welcoming and open place than other states or locales in the nation. Nothing could be further from the truth.  I have not lived or even visited every state in the union or country.  However, I have moved around quite a lot (i.e., I lived in many different places for different periods and visited many more, also known as being a tourist).  Maine is the only locale where I have heard the phrase ‘from away’ used to describe anyone not born in the state.  According to the ‘internet,’- The concept of being “from away” is deeply ingrained in Maine culture.  It reflects the state’s tight-knit communities and pride in their unique way of life. Another phrase that I heard several times here is: “That’s not how we do it here.” This is a phrase that I heard from the president of our homeowners association. 

After more than 10 years here, many of the various aspects of life in Maine only remind me of other places I have been.  The ocean and the coast remind me of Massachusetts and California, where we lived many years ago and for a considerable time.  The coast’s beauty also reminds me of Scotland, where I spent a long summer with friends and our long honeymoon the next summer.  The small-town vibe, people, and relationships reminded me of Iowa, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Cambridge, England, when I lived there.   The dense woods remind me of northern Wisconsin and the shores of Lake Superior.  But in every town, no matter where I have lived, I always felt like I was ‘the other,’ the person who did not fit in, who was different (and not in a good way).  That feeling of being separate and not wanted has always plagued me.  But Maine seems to bring out the sense of alienation and pack it with a wallop of indifference I have not seen elsewhere.

What is unique about the way of life in Maine?  What do these phrases mean to me and possibly others?  I am sure that they convey the distance between the person they are directed towards and the speaker; in addition, it is a way to decrease the worth of the utterances of the other.  While it is understandable that these attitudes have intensified my feelings of being “the other” - a sentiment you’ve probably encountered in various places throughout your own life.  Maine’s particular brand of insularity seems to have struck a deeper chord for me.

After the 1972 election, I knew I wanted to leave the Midwest, and my close friends in Wisconsin made me feel like part of a group of people who understood who I was and encouraged me to be who I wanted to be.  However, after a BA & MA and a stint in the Deans office as a researcher, I wanted even more of an academic life, graduate school in Sociology in a liberal state (the only state that voted for McGovern), where there were more Jews than just the sprinkling across the plains, where ideas, books, and research and learning were both valued and ubiquitous.  A place where you could engage with heady thoughts and difficult subjects in a cosmopolitan environment.

So, I moved on to Boston, Massachusetts, and fell into a well of loneliness and difficulties, both financial and academic, but I also found my footing and learned to trust myself, made friends, and did well.  But most importantly, I fell in love with Sue in April of 1982.  The story I tell about when I first saw and met her may be a bit embellished, but the major elements are all true. 

I saw her smile across a crowded room at BU; I moved to where she was talking with another graduate student about their intermediate statistics class, and so I attempted to get her to want to see me again – “Oh, I just wrote a paper using log-linear analysis; if you have any questions about the statistics or programming, I would be happy to help.”  It was a nerdy and sexist pickup line, but it or a variant was likely employed in Boston (academic Disneyland) frequently.  We planned a bike ride to Walden Pond for Saturday.  She called me on Thursday night and asked me “if I wanted to go out for a drink.” I said, “Why don’t you come over?  I have the makings for a Pina Colada.”

We stayed up very late talking, and in the morning, I told her that I was in love with her, and whenever she was ready to get married or move in, all she had to do was ask, and I would say yes.

Since that day, we have become the best of friends, colleagues, partners, and companions.  We married the next year and took a summer holiday to the UK.  We spent time in London and with my friends in Edinburgh, biked through the Hebrides of Scotland together, and then she presented a paper in Sterling.  We returned to Boston and lived happily ever after, seizing every opportunity to love and help each other, love our friends, travel to many countries, and do the best work possible to improve the world and healthcare.

However, it’s important to remember that my rich life experiences and the deep connections I have made over the years form a sense of belonging.  My vivid memories of places like Massachusetts, California, Scotland, and Wisconsin illustrate how I have carried pieces of “home” with me across many locations.

Further, my relationship with Sue anchors me and provides a sense of belonging that transcends geographic boundaries.  Our enduring partnership, built on shared experiences, mutual support, and love, is a powerful counterpoint to these feelings of alienation.

While it’s natural to desire acceptance from the community, I try not to let exclusionary attitudes diminish my history and perspective.  My diverse experiences, abilities, and worldview are assets, not liabilities, and I focus on nurturing those relationships and pursuits that bring me fulfillment, whether they align with local norms or not. 

“Moving on” doesn’t always mean physically relocating.  It can also mean shifting the focus to what truly matters - my partnership with Sue, my work, my personal growth, and the connections I’ve made throughout my life.  These elements create a true sense of home, regardless of where I find myself geographically.