Buying Fireworks In Indiana

I don’t have much to say about my lineage. I’m a middle-class American from the American Middle West. For the uninitiated, that means this- I am vaguely aware of my ties to somewhere far away (Scotland, in my case), I am vaguely aware that ties like these mean a lot to some folks, and I am vaguely aware that this meaning comes from narrative and one’s place within it. In my case, I’m keenly aware of one thing- coal mining was involved.

A strange thing happened the first time I found myself in Scotland. I was walking down a boulevard in Glasgow, eyes ping-ponging from face to face, leisurely stroll turned identity parade. I didn’t expect it; everyone looked like me. I was baffled to see human remixes of some primordial chunk of phenotype that I too shared. Maybe there was something spiritual afoot, an ancient Celtic melody manifested in stealth biology. I’m a middle-class American from the American Middle West. For the uninitiated, that means this- I don’t actually think there was anything spiritual afoot. I wish I did, but I don’t. Where I come from, folks who tend to think there’s something spiritual afoot also tend to like Fox News or jam bands, and I like neither of those things. Feeling strangely and unexpectedly tethered, I walked back to the venue in time for sound check. My friend Ian awaited my arrival with gift in hand- a small booklet from a nearby tourist shop with my surname in bold type set on the cover. A brief inquiry into the history of my clan, my brethren! I’d never met a stranger who shared my last name, who knew they wrote a book about us? My takeaway was this- William Wallace (for the uninitiated- Mel Gibson in Braveheart) once pillaged our castle, probably. That was the end of castles for the clan, as far as I know, and it didn’t even make the movie.

It’s not that I’m not curious about my foremothers and forefathers. On one side of my proverbial aisle, somebody at some point left Scotland for Canada. Lots of coal was mined. Somebody got tired of mining Canadian coal and decided to try mining Kentuckian coal instead. Or West Virginian coal, or Southern Ohioan coal, I’m not sure. On the other side of the aisle, someone learned a few things in a Canadian schoolhouse. Those lessons begat more lessons, and people who have learned a lot of lessons often decide to stop mining coal if they have the luxury. He didn’t, so he mined more coal, but his son did, so he sold Fords in the American Middle West. Chicago, Pittsburgh, Portsmouth, Columbus, and then, me. 

What I do have to say about my lineage is this- you don’t need the mists of some far-flung old country and a spindly family tree inked on yellowed papyrus to build your own lore; to make your own heroes. Not all heroes wear capes (in the American Middle West, nobody wears capes. Who does, in fact, wear capes?). All anyone has is narrative, and that’s all you need.

When I was growing up, fireworks were illegal in Ohio. They may be still, who knows. As many know, illegality and appeal are highly correlated, so the laws of the land only deepened our hunger for spectacular pyrotechnics. Poppers and sparklers be damned! We wanted to rattle the skies.

There is often “business in Chicago.” My grandpa often had “business in Chicago.” My dad still has “business in Chicago.” Chicago is an incredible city, it’s what I see out my window as I pen this very document, it’s clanging and clacking and clopping and clonking around me all day long. When you live in Ohio, you don’t care about clonking, you can’t be bothered. What bothers you is this- you lust after “kaboom” and “kerpow,” to wit, your state responds “heck no fella!”

Lucky for you, your state is not sovereign, and the interstate abounds! Send one of your own forth into the fray of I-70, into the new world. Hurtling westward through head-high cornstalks and the undulating wheat thresh fog of primordial apathy. Send one of your own forth to do business in Chicago so that you too may be exalted. After the doing of business comes the real business, the apotheosis of who-knows-how-many generations of those who “went forth.” Then comes buying fireworks in Indiana.

The weary businessman returns home to frenzied applause and jubilant cheers. The night is briefly illuminated by the scorching strobe of a single Roman candle- we have to save the rest of the haul for the approaching new year, obviously.

When I think about lineage, I think about this. I can’t summon the taste of a cherished family dish, I can’t imagine exhaling a gravel wheeze from coal-coated lungs, I can’t, as hard as I try, care about whether or not my dear foremothers and forefathers were or were not murdered by Mel Gibson. What I can summon is a narrative and the feeling of anticipation and excitement knowing someone will soon be buying fireworks in Indiana.  

I’ve shared this with a few folks, and the ones who can relate most are usually also from the American Middle West. Some relate specifically, others volley back their own quirky bits of lore and legend. We take shelter in these self-made atriums of meaning- they tether us to our neighbors just as they tether our minds to some version of identity as we stare together into the universe, out across the frozen cornfield. These legends evoke something in us, they awaken the language of the deep, even if we have to ask “does Grandpa count as primordial?”

This is my lineage, and it makes sense to me, somehow, sort of. If this or something like it is your lineage too, then maybe we’re tethered to each other, or at least swirling around the same tetherball pole.

So, this is my new project. I’m not quite sure of what it is, and I’m definitely not sure of what it will become, but for now, it’s lore and legacy and tradition and narrative, and trying to make sense of all these shiny, silly ideas with electronic music and essays.

Thanks for being here, I hope you’ll stay for the new year, because somebody is Buying Fireworks in Indiana.