Okay, so it has been made clear to me a million times over that I will never pass for a crunchy Vermonter. I will admit that though I have lived here over ten years now as a displaced New York Latina, I find it hard to give up some of my old, urban ways. I love make-up, high heels, and wearing lots of black clothing. I talk as fast as a Vermont summer season passes, and when I get together with my New York buddies, we could light Williston with the amount of energy we generate.
I accept that I am different, but I am still surprised at how often I am judged by my appearance and by people who claim to be progressive. My penchant for New York fashion does not dictate my politics or my lifestyle.
I remember an incident during my second winter in Vermont. It was one of the coldest days of the year. I was shopping in Burlington. I was wearing red lipstick, Gucci-knock-off sunglasses, and a full-length faux fur that I bought for myself for my 30th birthday. Besides being fabulous, the coat is also incredibly warm, kind of like wearing a really big bathroom rug. I stopped into a health food store to stock up on a few things. As I walked through the aisles, I noticed an angry-looking middle-aged woman glaring at me across the organic fruits.
I thought nothing of it. Being so fresh from New York City, I was accustomed to such things. I continued my shopping. She seemed to be following me around the store, and I began to get agitated. Finally, as we neared the checkout she spat out, "Murderer! Fur-coat-wearing murderer!" I stopped, dumbfounded. Then I started to feel something rising to the surface inside my gut. Yes, it was the girl from the upper west side. I hadn't needed her for over a year, so she had been sound asleep, but as my blood pressure rose, she reared her well-coiffed head.
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