On Being a Minnesotan

Jim and I emigrated to Minnesota in 1973. He was passionately interested in public policy and impressed with the "Minnesota Miracle." The University of Minnesota offered a masters in public affairs, which, in part, taught future policy wonks to dissect the miracle and keep it going. I had nothing more pressing to do, so why not join him? I, at least, assumed that it was a temporary move.

For those who weren't old enough to pay attention in 1973 (or don't live in Minnesota), the "Miracle" was all about fairness and sharing and raising the water so everyone's boat would float. It was redistribution of wealth on a small scale. Affluent communities and school districts with a large tax base shared their wealth with less fortunate communities via state-run taxation and distribution. Services and education throughout the state improved.

After a few years, we decided that the Twin Cities, specifically the suburban Minneapolis, was a pretty good place to settle down and raise a family, so we stayed. But two houses later, with our kids approaching adulthood, I still didn't list "Minnesotan" as one of my identities. I didn't identify with any other place (maybe "citizen of the world") but I just couldn't quite see myself as a Minnesotan.

Despite the incredible array of cultural opportunities in the Twin Cities, the good life in Minnesota still meant fishing, hunting, or racing along in an ATV or a snow mobile. Drinking beer instead of wine. Going to church every Sunday morning. None of that was "me."

As retirement approached and we thought about what we would do, we agreed that we loved to travel most of all (except of course for spending time with our kids and grandkids). We wanted time away from the cold, but not in the same place. A different place in Asia or the southern hemisphere every winter, not Florida or Arizona for us. So we embarked on transforming the home where we had raised our kids into a more grown-up place with nicer furniture and wonderful artifacts from our travels. And I decided that I must be a Minnesotan after all, because I didn't have a desire to live someplace else.

One of my daughter's friends recently unearthed an old Garrison Keillor article written during the 2004 election season. It's an acerbic and effective diatribe, and it's also a treatise on Minnesota values and why this state is reliably blue. 

The state was settled by no-nonsense socialists from Germany and Sweden and Norway who unpacked their trunks and planted corn and set about organizing schools; churches; libraries; lodges; societies and benevolent associations; brotherhoods and sisterhoods, and raised their children to Mind Your Manners, Be Useful, Pay Attention, Make Something of Yourself, Turn Down the Thermostat (If You’re Cold, Go Put on a Sweater), Share and Share Alike, Be Satisfied with What You Have—a green Jell-O salad with mandarin oranges, miniature marshmallows, walnuts, and Miracle Whip is by God good enough for anybody. I grew up in the pure democracy of a public grade school where everybody brought a valentine for everybody on Valentine’s Day so we should feel equally loved

I so admire Garrison Keillor's self-deprecating, articulate, and funny prose, especially when he's skewering what I consider the opposition. And despite his corniness, he and his words make me proud to finally officially declare myself a Minnesotan.