Land of Lincoln

It dawned on me the other day that we’ve now lived longer as married couple in Illinois than any other state.

Longer than Utah. (15 months post wedding)

Longer than Arizona. (9 months)

Longer than Colorado. (3 months)

Longer than Hawaii. (0 months, but how nice would that be?)

Because we’ve now lived in Illinois for 16 months.

Yet, I still feel like I’m new here.

I still scratch my head when people refer to neighborhoods like Cicero, Englewood and Austin. (As the news anchors do most days.) They’re south-ish, right?

I still can’t tell you all the names of the Metra and El lines. (Purple, brown, yellow and – hey, have you heard that navy is the new black?)

I haven’t eaten at any of the amazing restaurants downtown. I haven’t been to the Museum of Science and Industry. I haven’t walked the entire length of the Magnificent Mile, though I’ve covered many miles just south of it. I haven’t even been to Nauvoo.

I don’t totally understand wind-chill. I don’t know the 15 ways to creatively wrap a scarf. I don’t know all the ingredients of a Chicago dog by memory. I don’t know any reputed mobsters. (They’re all “reputed” in Illinois, it seems.) I don't even know what you call someone who hails from Illinois ... Illinoisan, Illinoisian, Illinoising?

And I really have myself to blame. Because despite the fact that I’ve lived here as long as I lived in El Salvador, I feel less of a bond with my Illinois compatriots than I did with my Central American friends.

Maybe it’s because this situation was supposed to be temporary. Maybe it’s because it’s so disgustingly cold in the winter that I want to vomit. Maybe it’s because I spent much of my time here vomiting … due to pregnancy. Maybe it’s because the Midwest accent and lifestyle don’t jive with my Southwestern roots. Maybe it’s because most of my friends and fam live thousands of miles away.

Maybe I just don’t like Illinois.

Or … maybe Illinois just doesn’t like me.

Maybe I’m not cool enough for its beautiful forests and stunning cityscapes. Maybe I’m not hip enough for its urban nightlife and literary events. Maybe I’m not cultured enough for its historic architecture and picturesque communities. Maybe I’m not Midwest enough for its dense vegetation and expansive lake.

Maybe I don’t own enough sweaters. Maybe I don’t have a post-graduate degree. Maybe I don’t remember Christmas shopping at Marshall Field's. Maybe I don’t care that Macy’s bought out Marshall Field's. (Except that they got rid of Free People clothing, which has seriously ruined window shopping.)

So, fine, Illinois.

Hate me if you must.

Refuse to accept me as a citizen.

I got your stupid driver’s license. I’m going to put on those plates this week. I even call Dreyer’s ice cream Edy’s now. And I no longer refer to Dominick’s as Albertson’s.

It looks like I’m going to be here a while. So we might as well learn to like each other.

Unless, of course, anyone wants to offer my husband a job out West. Because we would leave in a heartbeat.

Sorry, Illinois.