Bubbles

     What child doesn't love blowing bubbles?  I still enjoy sitting in the summer grass and watching as my children send the translucent orbs out into the clear blue Idaho sky.  People often talk about comfort food.  Well, blowing bubbles is a comfort activity.  Bubbles take me right back to my childhood.  They rose into the stifling Virginia air of my girlhood just as well as they do here.  Yes, I have always loved bubbles.  I never realized, however, that I would someday be viewing the world from the inside of one of these magical spheres.  I currently reside in the bubble of Shelley, Idaho.  It is a sleepy town populated by about 3,000 people.  If that description alone doesn't give you a good enough idea, I will expound.  There is a field for every ten houses, and a cow for every ten people.  Up until a few years ago, there was one lighted intersection.  The Main Street diner, Mick's, is the regular Saturday morning meeting place for several of the local farmers.  There are about twenty last names among Shelley's 3,000 residents.  I think some level of bartering for livestock may still occur when wedding arrangements are made between members of two of the Shelley "dynasties", aka farm families who make more money than most of us will ever see at one time.  Hopefully by now you get the picture.  Shelley, Idaho is not exactly a hip, happening, metropolitan melting pot.  I spent the bulk of my childhood in Richmond, Virginia.  We didn't live in the heart of the city, but in a nice suburban outlet.  We were in day trip driving distance of Washington, D.C., Jamestown and Virginia Beach.  The air was thick not only with near constant humidity, but also with history.  It is only now, looking back, that I realize how much I took for granted living in one of the most historical places in the country.  By the time my family moved away, I could have probably given someone a guided tour of the Smithsonian, and I had played on old Civil War battlegrounds like they were my own backyard.  Growing up in Richmond as a white Mormon, I was a minority.  I hung out with a close knit group of friends.  There were five of us; Jackie, Erica, Robin, Katherine and myself.  Jackie and Erica are black; Robin, Katherine and I are white; and Robin and I are the only Mormons.  We did everything together, from impromptu fashion shows to school trips to Christmas parties to slumber parties and movie marathons.  We were all part of the T.A.G. program at our elementary school.  And we were the very best of friends.  When I was thirteen, my family moved to Idaho.  I should say back to Idaho, as this is where both of my parents are from (mostly) and where I was born and lived until the age of two. We had moved to VA because of a contract my dad had taken with Virginia Power.  The contract was up, and it was time to get back to our roots.
     In my awkward adolescence, I did not feel that I was returning to my roots, but rather that I was being forcefully uprooted from everything I had come to know and love.  When we arrived here, I was amazed by how oddly out of place I felt in a sea of white Mormon faces.  Every girl at my middle school had the same hair and the same pair of jeans.  When I greeted people with a cheery, "Hey ya'll!" they looked at me like I was an alien, or at the very least like they were wondering why Paula Dean's granddaughter had moved into their neck of the woods.  No one drank soda or even Coke.  They drank some substance called "pop" and sat on "couches" instead of sofas.  Someone asked me one day if I wanted to "sluff" class with them.  I had absolutely no idea what they were referring to.  Not quite ready to accept the "resistance is futile" mantra of the Borg (sorry- I come from a very Trekkie family), I started hanging out with friends who were "different".  They were "stoners" and "skaters", aka the kind of friends that are likely to give the parents of an adolescent girl in the midst of an identity crisis a heart attack.  But they accepted me for me.  They didn't care what brand of jeans I wore.  They actually started to speak in some of my Southern lingo.  They were open to the idea that there is a great big wide world out there, and they wanted to hear about the parts of it I had seen.  I struggled all through the rest of middle school and high school trying to find out exactly where I fit in.  I made friends in many of the different cliques but never really settled into one.  I was a nomad.  I eventually found theater, which became my lifeline.  The final play I starred in my Senior year was none other than Steel Magnolias.  I was Shelby.  Looking back now, I find it a little ironic that I spent most of my high school career trying to hide who I really was and ended high school playing a role that was so close to my roots.
     I have now officially spent more of my life in Idaho than I did in Virginia.  It is a strange realization, as VA still feels like home on so many levels.  With time and maturity, I have come to realize that Idaho is not just a state of wide open fields and closed minded people.  My children were born in the bubble.  Sometimes I worry about that.  I have to admit that some sort of pride rose up within me when my daughter made "best friends" with the only part Asian girl in her class.  It is hard to teach your children to be color blind when there is no color.  It is hard to teach them about other cultures in a town where potatoes and football and church every Sunday are the only way to live.  I love that we live in a safe community.  Where I grew up you didn't go into certain neighborhoods.......ever, at least not if you wanted to keep all of your teeth in your mouth and your virtue intact.  You didn't go anywhere alone.  Here, I occasionally leave my front door unlocked when I am away.  Shelley is, admittedly, an ideal place to raise children in some respects.  But, I want my children to realize that there is more out there than this Mayberry existence (if this were a musical, a very inspiring song would now begin, but alas..........).  I suppose I will have to fashion my own pin and pop the bubble myself.  I have already begun attempting this, armed with pictures from my childhood and books (thank goodness for books!!!!!) about different countries, cultures and people who have made a difference.  On Martin Luther King Jr. day we read his "I Have a Dream" speech for Family Home Evening.  I wish I had the means to take my children around the world to see all of  the places and cultures that exist.  Of course, I do not.  Instead, I hope that through repeated discussions and readings, I can teach my children to be tolerant, accepting and compassionate to everyone.  As I have watched bubbles climb the summer skies so many times throughout my life, I have noticed one thing.  They always pop.  They are a brief illusion of happiness and are soon gone forever.  I hope to keep my children safe and away from harm while at the same time teaching them to keep their feet firmly planted on the ground and their minds and hearts open to all they can learn from and feel for all of the people outside of the bubble.