In 2008, when we first learned that the Navy was transferring us to Bangor, Maine, I went to various Maine message boards and asked people what I should know. At that point, I had never been north of Pennsylvania.
I asked people questions like, “Does it really snow a lot?” and people responded with variations of, “I can’t even see out my front window right now because of all the snow!”
“Helpful” commenters said my family would not make it through one winter before crawling back to Florida. They scared me with stories of snow banks that reached to the tops of street lights and wind chills that could freeze the tip of your nose clear off your face.
Mostly, however, some but definitely not all of the people warned me that I’d never belong: You’re not a Mainer. You will never be a Mainer.
I heard all the jokes about cats and ovens and biscuits, and I eagerly sat through long threads of answers to “What makes someone a Mainer?”
When we arrived in August that same year I was still afraid of the winters, but that was nothing compared to the sense of not belonging that seemed to hover over me as I ventured out into our new state. (Could I even call it “my state,” I wondered? Was that breaking a rule, too?) The worst was feeling like everyone’s circle of friends had long been established — like, since high school. Do they have room in their circle for me?
“From Away” was a term I learned quickly, and it was often used to introduce me to other people: “This is Sarah Smiley. She’s from away.”
It didn’t matter that the Smileys go back several generations in Maine and that Dustin’s grandfather, Henry, lived here from the time he was born until he left as a grown man in the 1960s. It didn’t matter that my father-in-law attended all the schools that my children eventually would if we were to make Bangor our home.
I was “from away,” and I felt a sense of “otherness” for a long time.
And then, as luck would have it, I fell in love with Maine. The state that I can never call “mine” became the only one that ever felt like “home” after 30-something years of living all over the country as a military dependent.
However, even as I told my husband “if you take me out of this state, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to get back here,” I knew I couldn’t really call Maine “mine” in public. If I loved New York City in the same way I love Maine, I could call myself a New Yorker after just one day and no one would turn a head. But not Maine.
We’ve been in Maine for eight years now, and I still feel shy about calling it “home,” even as I know of no other place for which I’d rather use the title. And despite our family being firmly embedded in the community — I’ve served on many boards, my husband has coached baseball, etc. — there are some people who would still like to remind us that we don’t really belong. Happily, there are many more people who have welcomed us and made us feel at home.
Still, just the other day, Instagram alerted me that my screen name had been tagged in someone else’s post. The text has since been removed, so I can’t copy it verbatim, but basically the poster was angry that I, a “Floridian,” have told the world about Maine and messed it all up for everyone who lives here. They used the hashtag #WhoDoYouThinkYouAre?
Putting aside the fact that the world has known about Maine for quite some time — since 1820, actually — I was surprised that this person still considers me an outsider. I’ve now spent more time in Maine than I ever did in Florida, and soon I will have spent more time here than I did in my own hometown.
So I read with interest a recent Bangor Daily News editorial about how our — I can call it “our,” no? — state needs people “from away” if it is to flourish. Citing a study from the National Academies of Science, Engineering and Medicine, the editorial included this quote: “The common Maine saying ‘from away’ speaks to a sense of pride in our state but also to an unnecessary and damaging division, implying that those from elsewhere can never truly be a part of our state’s social fabric and economy.”
Feelings of being “different” when you are new to Maine are not fiction. Neither is the immense sense of pride people have in this state — for good reason. But these divisions stymie growth and turn away people who will love Maine as much as we do.
Turns out, much of the warnings about snowbanks and wind chills were embellished. I’ve jokingly said Mainers say these things to keep the beautiful state to themselves.
But there is enough beauty to share.
And we should welcome people “from away” with open arms.
They could be tomorrow’s great Mainiacs.
Maine writer and columnist Sarah Smiley’s writing is syndicated weekly to publications across the country. She may be reached at facebook.com/Sarah.is.Smiley.