I Know You Are But What Am I?

“Can I get the non-local high?” Smokey asked the bartender as I, the non-local in question, stood by.
It was my first solo vacation and 3 days in, northern California was living up to the hype. The majesty and ancient wisdom of the redwoods stirred something in my soul. The still solitude of the forests ignited something inside and connected me to something deep within. And now here I was, hanging out in a nearly empty bar with 3 locals, immersing myself in the isolated small-town culture.
I was bursting with excitement to go on a pot-fueled spiritual journey with my new best friends.
‘Best vacation ever,’ I thought as Smokey handed me a Willie Nelson sized joint. We engaged in life-altering conversations, explored levels of consciousness never before attained by the human mind, and forged a bond that would last lifetimes. Or so I thought.
“What’s it like to live in a town that attracts so many tourists?” I asked Smokey.
“You mean the terrorists,” she replied.
Oh that Smokey. Always making me laugh. “Yeah,” I chortled, “everybody hates a….”
I’ve been called many things in my 38 years. My life-long battle of the bulge has inspired the cruel and insecure to use such epithets as ‘big ole ham’ and ‘f***ing ugly hippo’ to describe me. Working in public service has opened me to a barrage of insults and name calling ranging from racist to the devil. But this was the first time I’d ever been called a terrorist.
In retrospect, I should have realized my west coast BFFs were less than thrilled with my company. When I pulled up to the bar/restaurant/lodge, the first words the bartender said were ‘kitchen’s closed.’ She also enthusiastically extolled the virtues of drinking alone in my room after I mentioned that I would probably be back up for a beer after settling in. And why was no one there watching the 49ers on Monday Night Football for their season opener?
As I sat in my room a short while later, drinking a beer in solitude and listening to the recently texted ‘it’s safe to come now, she’s gone’ bar crowd raucously cheering on the Niners, I couldn’t help but smile.
I am not a f***ing ugly hippo. I am not Satan incarnate. I am not a terrorist. I sat on that bed and was hit with the realization that I do not care what people think of me. I am what I say I am, not what others say I am. And that helped my soul as much as the redwoods.
Thank you, Smokey. I am. And so are you.