A
small town in central
Oklahoma, just south of
Shawnee and about thirty miles
east of
Norman.
There are more
trees than you'd
imagine, if you imagine Oklahoma as being what Oklahoma mostly is, though there are even more
shitkickers, too. Think dually
pickup trucks, shotguns, huge rodeo belt buckles, permed hair and
Pickle-Ohs.
But stick around a while, spend a Friday night after the game
cruising back and forth from the
Sonic to the
Kwik-Stop, pass a warm Sunday afternoon out at the lake with the children
skipping rocks while their fathers work the starch out of their church shirts. Monday morning there's a crowd of
bluehairs down at Sangster's Sweet Shoppe (where the window advertises
Dognuts, three for a dollar), they'll tell you what it was like before the
bust came and dried up the neighborhoods. Maybe they remember how it felt to sneak a slide down the old three-story
fire escape at Barnard
Elementary, the metal so hot in the noonday sun you can almost smell the imaginary flames licking out the windows.
Of course, when you leave you'll give them plenty to talk about, too, what with your
fancy clothes and that car that must have cost a year's pay.
Leave your
dancing shoes behind, friend, Tecumseh's a
Baptist town. Oh, sure, the
Methodist children dance, but they'll never grow up to chair the
Rotary meetings or run the bank, and who'd buy a
tractor from a
libertine, anyway? Of course, you don't need dancing to pour your heart out in song; just come on down to church. Though, truth be told, the Methodists do seem to have a powerful beauty about their music. And when you crave yet another dose of music, and who doesn't in these times, drop by the
high school and listen in on the choir. Those kids are the best in the state, and never you mind those nasty rumors about the one in the red
bow tie and the
drama teacher.
Oh, that's right, we don't talk about the
faggots, unless we're making sure they know to keep their mouths
shut.
Don't ask, don't tell; if it's good enough for the
Air Force, it's good enough for us. Like
black folks, who don't seem to be around much, though rumor has it there are a few living over by
Romulus. Of course, we do have our share of
Indians, or
Native Americans as they call them back east, what with the reservation next door, but they're mostly decent, other than the
drinking and
gambling, and they breed some damn fine
football players. Good
artists, too. Why, it was an Indian that drew the high school mascot, gave us a beautiful portrait to go along with the name. Go,
Savages!
That's another thing: most folks don't think much about it, but Tecumseh used to be a
border town, back when they first opened up Indian territory to the white men (the
Sooners being the first ones in, in case you've travelled a long way to get here and have missed learning that important historical tidbit). A few miles east and you were among the savages (not the football team), but Tecumseh itself was the seat of
civilization. Well, it had the sheriff and jail, and all the
whiskey moved through there to the saloons right on the border. Close enough.
So there you go. When you find yourself sipping your
Dr. Pepper in the hot summer sun, look past the white kids driving pickup trucks to the red clay hills and the scraggly green trees, and
imagine. Imagine that you've just arrived from
Tennessee or
Kentucky,
Florida,
New York,
Pennsylvania or
Michigan. Imagine your
wife, your
mother, your
brother, your
son,
dead along the road. But you've made it here. Oh, yes, and then imagine that you need to move again, just a little bit further east, to make room for
civilization, civilization that makes
music without
dancing.