Every State in the Union, I’m sure, still produces a definable trait in those Sons and Daughters lucky enough to sidestep the Globalist parasite. I’ve been lucky. In my travels and in my function as a dissident I’ve had the unmitigated pleasure of working alongside some of the finest Sons of the Northeast. Each man is proud of his State, except for Massachusetts. And each of these States sends her Sons with a frame of mind.
Of course, I am a Mainer. I hold no ill will against any of the States, not even Massachusetts. I’m comfortable in all of New England, although I’ll tell no lie; I find no comfort in these United States anywhere outside Maine, the hills of New Hampshire, the coastal villages of Massachusetts, and the fields of Vermont. As to Rhode Island and Connecticut? I’ve yet to grace my palette with a visit to those fine lands.
I am a Mainer. More than that, I am a Southern Mainer. This marks me out as a member of a dieing breed. And as a result, self-aware Southern Mainers have a way about them. I’m not talking about your bleary eyed television watchers, or your yuppie Portland pavement stompers. I’m talking middle class, working class, White New England men. In Maine. Now, Southern Maine is well known as a kitschy tourist trap. For this reason alone, the Southern Mainer with his identity in check knows he stands apart.
Every year the New Hampshire, Massachusetts and Vermont plates start rolling in. Behind those licence plates are privileged drivers (who probably don’t even come from the States their plates suggest) and they clog our roads. They clog the grocery store lines. They buy up all the property and leave it derelict for one half of the year. These are called “Summer Complaints.” They seem to think their wealth makes them special. When they speak to you and realise you have an accent, they speak more slowly. It would seem they think you are stupid. They hire you for work, and attempt to shave your wages. They come to Maine and bring their highbrow, snot-nosed attitudes with them. Some of them don’t leave. There are a lot of elements that move here from Away and seek to dictate terms of how we live. Yes, they move here for simple living… and then build mansions and ungodly, hideous multi-story people plantations. And then what do you know, the simple life is gone, killed by Out-of-Staters. (Pronounced “outta State-ah. We have no hard Rs, as a general rule.)
There is a lingering suspicion of people from Away. Probably because tourism killed the best of our industry. Drive through Southern Maine and you will see the towns that were hit. Old, big mill buildings – some empty for decades. Only now they are beginning to fill again… not with textile or steel or paper labour, but with that special breed of self-admittedly chosen little mercantile classes. They open up shops for things nobody needs, like kebabs and organic ice-cream. What the Southern Mainer knows is that the face of his State changed to accommodate tourism. Ungrateful Canadians and their ugly speedos. I’m the first in my family for several generations to not hate the Canadians. But it remains that the Southern Maine workingman knows in his hear that the economically dire straits and diminishing vocation returns are tourism, if he is a clever Mainer, part of him knows that tourism is just another aspect of globalism. When automation hit, we lost half our economy. Tourism filled the gap.
And then you have the County Boys. Northern Mainers who seem to think we should be called upper Massachusetts. They’re entitled to their opinion, of course, and they’re entitled to be wrong. They forget that Massachusetts almost sold their asses to Canada, that one time, over a river dispute. And more than that, Northern Maine, because it is so rural, has been commoditised. A lot of the county boys that leave that place have less of an accent than I have and don’t even want to be called Mainers. Again, that’s their business. While I may care some, it ain’t my place to tell them to change.
Well now, the long and short of it is this: the Southern Mainer often feels like he is a home defender in enemy territory. This gives him a sturdy character. He is hard to impress. He is headstrong. Now, he might keep a lot of his opinions to himself, but he has them. If you ask, he’ll tell you. But you might have to wait until he trusts you. Trust takes a while, especially when half the State disappears in the winter and takes the economy along. He is almost certainly unimpressed with braggery. Never brag to a Southern Mainer. He’ll remember you as an idiot and probably never take you seriously. And to prove it, he’ll screw with you – when you least expect it and never see it coming. To impress a Southern Mainer, you need substance. Don’t tell him, show him. Missouri has nothing on us. Now. Bragging is different than boast, and entirely different than shooting the breeze. Those are fine. Bragging is telling us who you know and where you’ve been. Don’t none of that matter to us.
The Out-of-Stater sometimes comments on the steadfastness of the (Southern) Mainer. Part and parcel. Sometimes things take a while, when they’re worth waiting for. We’re always waiting for something in Southern Maine. Waiting for the weather to cooperate. Waiting for the roads to clear (of tourists.) Waiting for a permit to clear to start a job. Waiting. We’re used to it.
Because Maine is a State of writers, we tend to be witty. Proud of our ability to spin a phrase or weave a tale. Evidently our humour can be so dry that out-of-staters never know when we’re serious. Their loss. It might take you awhile to understand his way of doing things, but you’ll be hard pressed to find cleverer entertainers. We used to have a unique lingo and diction apart from Northern Maine. And it’s not gone (because at least I’m still here.) Contrary to the opinions of many who think accents and jargon is the sole proprietorship of the North. When I was a boy I could tell a difference in the accent of kids form my town from those of Westbrook, or Scarborough or Buxton or Windham. Or Old Orchard, or Saco or Biddeford.
GloboHomo has tried to kill our way of speech like they have yours and your mother’s. But it isn’t dead. And it’s important that people carry the torch. Take a little pride in your raising, especially if you are a son of New England. Get to know your State, before Clown World eats it and shits Piss Earth.