Abstract
Growing up suburban in America typically suggests a privileged lifestyle. Paradoxically, it can also provide a yearning for change.
Tucked away in the thickets of the Minnesota River Valley is the sleepy town of Chaska, Minnesota—the 8th contender for Money Magazine's Top 100 Places to Live in 2007. This small settlement once sustained itself with the unique high-quality clay that allowed for the manufacturing of “Chaska Brick” during the steamboat trade era (often, when catfishing, I still come across these old bricks, half-buried in the riverbanks). Since the end of the Industrial Revolution, though, Chaska has transformed into a textbook example of suburbia. An overwhelming proportion of the population is middle-aged, white, married with kids, and leading what most Americans would consider a privileged lifestyle. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the town's median household income in 1999 was $61,214 ($19,222 more than the national median). The empirical data at hand lends itself to my own personal experiences and helps me paint a picture of my upbringing in a 500-unit housing development.
Ernest Hemingway once described suburban America as a place of “wide lawns and narrow minds.” The homogeneity of my neighborhood—or any other neighborhood in town—was easily observed on any typical summer weekend. Every Saturday morning I would hop on my bike and head over to my friend Jonny's house. On the ride over, I'd count the procession of dads mowing their lawns in virtual synchrony, told apart only by their varying colors of Polo shirts (always accompanied by khaki golf shorts). The record stood at eight. It was rare to enjoy any summer afternoon that wasn't overpowered by the mind-numbing drone of a John Deere product. And even though I hadn't read any of George Orwell's writing yet, something about the way the neighborhood functioned seemed eerie. My parents were reluctant to participate in any of the superficial rituals of social solidarity (as sociologist Dalton Conley calls them) that seemed to bring the other neighbors closer together, but in an effort of “concerted cultivation,” raising me and my brothers, my parents managed to play along.
Almost all of the students from the nearby schools were exactly like me, but a large number of the students who graduated Chaska Elementary were of Latino descent. Racial conflict was, nevertheless, nearly nonexistent, with the exception of one isolated event that occurred during my junior year of high school. Multiple student accounts confirmed that a fight between two Mexican American students and three white students was incited by racial remarks made by the white students. After the brawl was separated, the Chaska police liaisons checked the security cameras for footage and initially deduced that the fight evidenced the ominous arrival of “gang violence.” Their conclusion came from spotting hand gestures exchanged between the students—upon further investigation, these alarming gestures were found to be nothing more than, well, the middle finger. The white students only faced two-day suspensions, while the Mexican American students were recommended for expulsion.
One of the most crucial sociological factors that influenced where I am today might also be one of the pettiest. In my early years, my friends and family used to call me names like “Dumbo” and “Monkey Boy.” I hadn't quite grown into my ears. I finally devised a plan that would not only help mend my dignity, but also help cover up those wretched satellites on the side of my head. People within my peer group were more than accepting of my new hirsute look, and eventually began to associate me with my full head of hair. Adults were a different story. My bushy hairstyle deviated from the neighborhood norm of a well-maintained crew cut and would eventually lead to far more serious implications than dirty looks.
One summer afternoon, I went up to the park for a game of soccer with the old neighborhood friends. Shortly after my arrival, one of the kids, Peter, was boasting about freshly-acquired chemical knowledge of the kind that's always fascinated teenage boys—illegal pyrotechnics. Peter assured us that all he needed was a stove to slowly melt this concoction. All of us were gripped by a keen impatience to see a smoke bomb capable of smoking out an entire football stadium. My next-door neighbor, Ryan, suggested taking this arcane science experiment over to the house he was watching for the weekend, and Peter ran home to get the jar of crystalline powder.
We all hovered over Peter's shoulders as he carefully stirred the brew. Though we didn't know it, he'd made a crucial mistake: the stove was too hot. Within milliseconds, potassium nitrate molecules began to rapidly decompose, releasing tremendous amounts of flammable oxygen gas. In the blink of an eye, a white light exploded out of the pot, followed by an inferno that stretched to the ceiling. A thick white smoke completely overtook every square inch of the house. Ryan and the other five boys fled, leaving me and Peter in the thick haze.
A hush-hush, parent-mediated “trial” followed for nearly a week after the incident. Parents disputed over how much of the $2,500 insurance deductable they were going to contribute to the damages. Ryan and the five other boys had concocted an elaborate lie that was enough to convince the stingy neighborhood parents that the guilt fell on me and Peter alone. In the end, just our two families split the check, while the rest refused to pay a single penny. My parents channeled their embarrassment, shame, and anger into my punishment. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for the next two months, I'd be doing yard work from from 7am to noon.
As I paid my dues to my parents, a social phenomenon was spreading like wildfire from one Desperate Housewife to another. In You May Ask Yourself, Conley defines a social network as “a set of relations held together by ties between individuals.” The vast social network that was my neighborhood now served as a venue for a 500-person game of “telephone.” Distorted rumors about the “long-haired Buchner boy” were detrimental for not only my reputation, but my whole family's reputation. As the gossip spread, my parents started to notice that our neighbors hardly socialized with them anymore. Even after two months had passed, rumors were still circulating back to my mom. One of the most outrageous claims my mom overheard came from a conversation between two Stepford Wives at a school PTA meeting. The women chattered back and forth about how I was operating a meth lab and it exploded. After administering a severe tongue-lashing, my mom stormed out of the meeting and never returned. Suburbia had taken its final toll; my mom demanded that we move.
This uprooting put a substantial amount of stress on my parents' marriage, and I usually bore the brunt. I withdrew socially and spent nearly all of my time trying to prove myself to my parents though my academic performance. My driving inspiration was (and still is) to be successful enough so I'd never have to raise my family in suburbia. Luckily, my hard work paid off, and, while some 40 percent of my graduating class didn't go on to higher ed, I was accepted into a Big Ten university.
My driving inspiration was (and still is) to be successful enough so I'd never have to raise my family in suburbia.
It's easy—and nearly cliché—to say that everybody has pivotal moments in their lives. What's hard for some to admit is that social, economical, racial, and many more societal factors that are out of our hands play a major role in determining our future. Chaska shaped my life and played a huge part in developing and supporting my academic interests—and I'm extremely thankful for this. Social class, politics, and the downfalls of suburban living not only inadvertently inspired me academically, but also influenced my family to break free from a lifestyle embraced by people with “wide lawns and narrow minds.”
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