Suburban Savage

Savage is as Savage does

February 17, 2010 at 10:28 pm (liberal, neighborhood, suburbia, wizard of oz)

sav*age [sav-ij]

-adjective

1. fierce, ferocious, or cruel; untamed
2. enraged or furiously angry
3. unpolished; rude

-verb

1. to assault and maul by biting, rending, goring, etc.; tear at or mutilate
2. to attack or criticize thoroughly or remorselessly; excoriate

What’s a nice girl like me doing with a word like this?

I’m embracing it. I’m adoring it. I’m choosing it as the linguistic representation of my experience in suburban America.

There exists a peculiar challenge in moving through the landscape of Suburbia. The challenge is not blatant. It’s not something so straight-forward as solving a crossword or installing a new faucet.

The challenge is something similar to the idea of Dorothy’s red shoes.  Remember how glorious those glittering heels were when they first appeared on Dorothy’s feet? My first thought upon seeing the shoes was, “Dorothy is SO lucky.”

Wrong-o, little munchkin. Dorothy had just involuntarily stepped into a shiny pile of  trouble. Trapped in a sparkly foreign land where all the inhabitants sang and danced but they were really just heartless and lacking brains and courage, our heroine fought to return to her home. (That may have been a bit harsh but you get the idea.)

Of course, in the end, it is revealed that the path home was with Dorothy all along. According to Glenda, the Good Witch of the North, our dear Dot was the mistress of her own destiny. The challenge had nothing to do with frolicking about with brainless, heartless cowards. It had nothing to do with manicures and facials in a neat green town. It was all about realizing one’s true nature. It was about empowerment of self.

Here I find myself, sixteen years into parenthood, eleven years into volunteering at various public schools, and six solid years into hardcore suburban living. The neighborhood pool is sparkly. The lawns are neat and green. There is even a neighborhood association President with puffy white hair who seems able to fix anything. It would be awfully easy to just acquiesce.

But, I don’t. I savage. I hang on for dear life to my liberal ideals. I go toe to toe with the middle school Principal who claims my son’s purple dye job is a “distraction”. I listen calmly while the driver next to me yells profanity about me and my Obama bumper sticker.  Then, I shoot him the peace sign. (That may not seem very savage, but it REALLY pissed him off.)

The challenge of Suburbia is about choosing to be the one who savages, not the one who is savaged. The comfort level here is beguiling. It’s very easy to smile and say, “Oh, me too!” or, “Gosh. I don’t really care. Whatever you think.”. And that, my friend, is the ultimate savagery: compromising one’s true nature.

I don’t claim to be a trail blazer or some goddess of individuality. I’m 38 years old. This understanding didn’t come quickly or easily. I spent a great deal of time admiring my pretty new shoes without realizing all the trouble they got me into.

Now, I get it. Dorothy isn’t the real star. She wasn’t lucky.

Glenda is who I truly admire. She knew the answers all along. She never forced her opinion or made anyone feel stupid. She just sat back and observed, only stepping in when no one else could make sense of the chaos. Savage.