I came to Rhode Island from Washington state thirty-five years
ago, in August 1978. There were some obvious differences. Rhode Island is a
tiny provincial state with a long history; Washington is a large diverse state
with a much briefer history.
It took me a long time – almost until the present day – to figure
out the subtler differences between the two.
I was puzzled (at first) by people who kept asking me if I was
“one of the Rhode Island Williamses.” I had no idea what this meant.
They seem to like it
here.
They like it so much, in fact, that a lot of people never cross
the state line. I saw a cute bumper sticker in Frog & Toad the other day: THIS CAR
NEVER LEAVES RHODE ISLAND. (That’s not a
joke, for a lot of people.) The Rhode Island border is a little permeable here
and there – into Attleboro, Mass. in the northeast, and into Seekonk, Mass. in
the east, and maybe just a little into Stonington, Conn. in the southwest – but
it is generally a very watertight little enclosure, in which everyone bounces
around, but which no one ever really leaves.
Which leads to the next thing: everyone knows everyone here.
In Washington, you know the people in your community, or at least
a few of them. In Rhode Island, you know everyone.
But Rhode Island is a very private club. It takes a while before
you’ve really been accepted.
Now I’ve been here for more than thirty-five glorious years.
People smile and wave at me in the street. I say hello to everyone, and they
say hello back, because they know: deliverymen, cashiers, business owners. Even
one of the homeless people downtown greeted me the other day with casual
familiarity.
I’m a local, at last. A real Rhode Islander.
And it only took thirty-five years!
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