There are not, at present, very many good reasons to live in Michigan. The weather blows, the roads are terrible, and even the state's admittedly successful strategy to avoid the economic ups and downs that have plagued other states has consisted primarily of stubbornly remaining in a recession since 1991. Most recently the burgeoning auto theft industry, thought to be recession-proof, took a big hit when General Motors started giving away a free Chevy Suburban to anyone who would test drive a Chevy Suburban.
There is, however at least one significant advantage to being
from Michigan, as opposed to another state: If you're from Texas or Colorado or Tennessee and someone asks you where in the state you're from, you have to tell them something like "the middle of the pan handle," or "just south of Denver" or "halfway between the world's largest bowl of grits and the world's smallest library" or something.
If you're from Michigan, however, you just hold up your right hand and point to it with your left. Everybody from Michigan does this.* People in Michigan have been trained from birth to think of their right hands as little maps that they always have with them. If you ask an auto worker where he's from, he'll likely point to the bottom knuckle of his thumb. If you ask a politician where he lives, he'll point to the center of his palm -- and not just because he expects a kickback for answering the question. If you ask someone from Jackson County, he will probably show you his middle finger. Don't let this mislead you: Jackson County is in the southern part of the state, but the people who live there are all complete bastards.
I still remember the first time I left the state as a young man and got hopelessly lost trying to find our great country's right elbow. It is a jarring realization to find that the rest of the world is not so conveniently anatomically correct. Eventually someone handed me a map of Indiana which, once taped to my forearm, allowed me to find my way home.
The cognitive power of having a roughly accurate map of the geographic area in which you live permanently attached to your wrist cannot be overestimated. A popular legend claims that General Edward Braddock's failure to take Fort Michilimackinac during the French and Indian War was due primarily to his insistence on forcing his men to march 180 miles out of their way to avoid "slipping between the fingers."**
Adding to the accuracy of my personal map, I even have a weird little scar on my right hand where I once accidentally stabbed myself in my hometown of Grand Rapids. It is appropriate, I suppose, that Grand Rapids should have left a scar, considering all the traumatic experiences I had there. Junior high alone should have been good for a bad rash or two.
The most traumatic year of my life, though, was when my parents moved to southern Florida when I was 17. Florida was total culture shock for me. I completely lost my bearings. My new classmates just didn't know what to make of this weird, scrawny kid from Michigan, and I probably didn't help matters by asking many of the girls in my class to show me what part of Florida we were in. This sort of thing was a polite conversation starter in Michigan; how was I to know that such demonstrations were frowned on down there?
I ended up getting a reputation as a bit of a creep, but I never could figure out what I was doing wrong. No matter how much time I spent trying to reconcile Michigan and Florida, Florida seemed to want something I couldn't give it. It's a miracle that my actions resulted in no visible scarring down there.
Eventually I gave up trying to satisfy Florida's unrealistic demands, and moved back to Michigan, where my right hand was once again my best friend. It remained so until I met the future Mrs. Diesel and moved to California. Sure, I had to give up the familiarity of my right hand, but wonderful new horizons opened up as a result.
Sometimes I wonder if there are other areas of the world that use a body part as a map. The only other anatomically analogous region I know of is Italy. If you ask somebody from Naples what part of Italy they're from, do they point to their ankle? I guess that really only works if you're wearing boots, though. If I lived in Italy, I'd want to wear boots all the time so I'd never get lost. I suppose that explains the appeal of fascism.
California is roughly kidney shaped, but that's less helpful than you might think when you're lost in a bad part of Fresno. Getting undressed and turning around before you ask for directions really only works in San Francisco.
I guess every state has its drawbacks. One thing you can say for Michigan, though: people there are always willing to give you a hand. And sometimes the finger.
*No solid evidence has ever been found for the existence of a lost tribe of Handless Indians who still roam the frozen wastes of the mythical "Upper Peninsula" of Michigan.
**The French and Indian War was not, contrary to popular belief, fought between the French and the Indians. It was fought between the country of India and Mr. French from
Family Affair, both of whom wanted exclusive rights to the vast breakfast cereal deposits in Battle Creek, Michigan. Battle Creek, now known as the home of the Kellog company, was so named because of the great battle that was scheduled to occur there. Sadly, the Indian army got lost on the way to the battleground and ended up settling in the then-uncharted area south of Michigan, which is now known as Indiana. This footnote is for my nephew Joshua, who asked for my help on his social studies report.