I'm Here for the (Barn) Party

After a long workday conference on Saturday, my new roomie dragged me off the couch, made me put my cowboy boots on, and took me to my first barn party. (Hers too. She's from Cincinnati.)

"If nothing else, it'll be a great blog post," she said.

She knows me too well. It's scary.

So we loaded the Bud Light in the backseat, drove 20 miles on back roads that wouldn't have been out of place in Deliverance, and knew we were in the right place when we saw the double wide with 20 jacked-up trucks parked out front.

This scene brought me back to a conversation I had in my classroom, in which one of my students asked "So, since you're white, does that mean you're a redneck?" to which another student shouted "I don't know many white people, but I KNOW she ain't no redneck." (Thanks, dude.)

After Roomie peeled my fingers from the door handle (I was a little, uh, reluctant), we walked around back to the "barn" party. I say "barn" because while I had imagined a large, red building piled with bales of hay, this was more like a detached garage with a disco ball and DJ. Every male was in head to toe camo, and I saw more than one lady mullet. (Let's just say I popped open a Bud Light pretty quickly.)

My first new friend was a guy named Worm. He couldn't tell me how he got that nickname, which was fine since I didn't really want to know anyways. Then I met Michelle, an older house painter who kept telling me over and over "But you're so PRETTY! My teachers were all old and blue-haired. You're just so young and PRETTY!" (I liked Michelle.)

Inside of the barn was a DJ spinning tunes by Vanilla Ice and Garth Brooks, two Confederate flags, and a sink full of....deer meat. Soaking. In front of everybody. At that point, I knew with 100% certainty that if I mentioned to anyone that I:
1) voted for Obama, or
2) was a vegan

we'd be running out of there to the tune of bullets whizzing by.

A farmer named Bob (not joking) told me that I have "two choices as to what to do on the weekends. Get drunk or leave." (I was kind of wishing for the second one.)

It's at these sort of gathering that I bring out my Southern drawl and make sure to mention that I went to an SEC school and that my mama's from West Virginia. (Somehow this gives me street cred with every redneck. Go figure.)

I actually ended up having a great time. By the time we left (well into the morning), I had all the marks of a great Saturday night:  smelled like bon fire, met a new friend named Worm, and had legs that hurt from dancing. Not bad, if I do say so myself.