by Isaac James Baker
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\nI quickly learned to apologize when people asked me where I was from. \u00a0It just made things easier to get that out of the way early. \u00a0It was obvious to the kids in school that I wasn\u2019t one of them. \u00a0I said words like \u201cdat\u201d when pointing at something. \u00a0My sentences were laced with \u201cfriggin\u2019\u201ds. \u00a0I slurred my words together with the slick, lazy tone of Joe Pesci drunk on wine. \u00a0Still, they asked, begging for the chance to jump on my response.<\/p>\n
And I guess I don\u2019t blame them. \u00a0I was the new kid in town. \u00a0And my place of birth was an easy target. \u00a0It\u2019s a big red bull\u2019s eye tacked onto the foreheads of everyone who hails from the most populated, polluted and thoroughly unpretentious state in the nation. \u00a0Yep, I\u2019m talking about Jersey.<\/p>\n
I was thirteen when my father and mother, chasing after career opportunities, told me they were ready to uproot me, my brother, and my sister from our beach bum haven and move to Chicagoland.<\/p>\n
Leave Belmar? \u00a0I couldn\u2019t understand the notion. \u00a0No one left Belmar. Especially not me. \u00a0I was born in Belmar \u2013 which means \u201cbeautiful sea,\u201d by the way. \u00a0It didn\u2019t have any hospitals \u2014 that would take up too much real estate that could otherwise be used for bars or billiard joints. \u00a0I was born at home, in my mother\u2019s bed. \u00a0And the house I was born in was two blocks from the beach.<\/p>\n
That ocean was my home. \u00a0The sand, the cold water, the jetties covered with crabs and barnacles, the splintered planks on the boardwalk. \u00a0From May to September, I spent every hour I could at the beach, bodyboarding, skipping rocks, digging for sand crabs, jumping into the rough surf during high tide, collecting sea glass (sometimes just regular broken glass, jagged and shiny new). \u00a0Sure, I got sick a few times a year from some bacteria or trash in the ocean. \u00a0Sure, the lifeguards would call everyone out of the water every couple of days when a mass of bacteria-infested red tide would drift in. \u00a0There was always the inevitable dirty diaper, used syringe, or hunk of scrap metal that would wash up on the shore. \u00a0My friends and I would run over to check out such items with Christmas morning enthusiasm.<\/p>\n
Yeah, Belmar was a dump, but at least no one pretended that it wasn\u2019t. \u00a0When no one worries about what other people think, they can calm down and enjoy what they\u2019ve got, even if what they\u2019ve got is just sand, shoreline and drunken vacationers from Brooklyn who puke all over the sidewalks every night.<\/p>\n
Leaving Belmar meant I wouldn\u2019t be pulling broken glass out of my bare heels anymore. \u00a0I wouldn\u2019t be stepping over used condoms on the way to the beach in the morning. \u00a0I wouldn\u2019t have to worry about seaweed getting stuck underneath my balls anymore either. \u00a0But I also wouldn\u2019t be sneaking out late at night to look through the windows of the rental houses on our block to see drunk girls undressing. \u00a0I wouldn\u2019t be getting together with the neighborhood kids, filling empty beer cans with sand and throwing them at tourists\u2019 cars. \u00a0I wouldn\u2019t be sneaking into the high surf during storms when the lifeguards wouldn\u2019t let anyone swim. \u00a0I wouldn\u2019t be collecting shells or picking up starfish from the tide pools, letting their hundreds of tongues lick at my palm.<\/p>\n
Instead of sticking around town, letting my early teen years drift by like the changing tides, we loaded down our vomit-colored Dodge Caravan and set out for the Midwestern plains. \u00a0Moving at thirteen is hell enough as it is. \u00a0And it\u2019s not like we were moving down the shore to Ocean City. \u00a0No, we left Belmar for a place that, at least in the mid-nineties, had to be the richest, most Jewish, and most mind-meltingly boring suburb in the entire country.<\/p>\n
Deerfield, Illinois. \u00a0Where nothing grows unless sanctioned by a landscaping firm. \u00a0Where construction crews work in the middle of the night so the residents don\u2019t have to see their dirty and scruffy faces. \u00a0Where even at the public library you can\u2019t find homeless people. \u00a0Where bankers from the north side of Chicago go to hide from their misery in half-million dollar condos. \u00a0Where cul-de-sacs reign. \u00a0Where good times go to die.<\/p>\n
A few days out of the van from the cross-country trip, I donned a pair of worn corduroys, a sun-bleached surf t-shirt, and a pair of two-tone Chuck Taylors and walked into the first day of the seventh grade at Alan B. Sheppard Junior High School. \u00a0I was anxious to scope out the kids that populated this strange Midwestern land.<\/p>\n
For the most part, I found the kids in my school to be about as interesting as a cross-sectioned map of Illinois\u2019 soil and bedrock. \u00a0They were so damned simple! \u00a0So clean! \u00a0They all had the heavy-duty Land\u2019s End backpacks and gleaming shoes: Doc Martens, Nike Airs, Michael Jordans, Airwalks. \u00a0They had unwrinkled shirts emblazoned with snazzy-sounding names like Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Abercrombie and Fitch. \u00a0Some company always seemed to be announcing its existence in huge letters on everything that these walking billboards wore. \u00a0The only names I had on my shirts were Bob Marley and Don Mattingly. \u00a0These kids\u2019 clothes were always spiffy and new. \u00a0The best clothes I had were from the discount rack at The Gap. \u00a0These kids all took the school bus or had their parents drop them off in shiny Cadillacs. \u00a0I trudged over the railroad tracks to and from school. \u00a0These kids lived in developments with names like Elk Run Gardens or Chesterton Fiords or something equally as ridiculous. \u00a0I lived in a small house with splintered porch beams and peeling piss-colored paint that was sandwiched between a lumber yard and an abandoned factory that used to make Little Debbie dessert pastries.<\/p>\n
They poked fun at my Converse All-Star shoes right away. \u00a0A place where Chuck Taylors were actually the butt of jokes, not objects of worship? \u00a0Where in the hell was I? \u00a0They called me a bum because of my family\u2019s rundown Dodge Caravan, which was known around town for polluting the tree-lined Deerfield streets by spitting filthy, black smoke. \u00a0When walking around town, or even to and from school, I would frequently get stopped by cops in squad cars. \u00a0They always looked at me like I was high when I told them I was just walking around, that I didn\u2019t have a particular destination in mind.<\/p>\n
When I\u2019d order a soda at lunch, the kids would smirk: \u201cNo soda<\/em>. \u00a0They only have pop.\u201d \u00a0No one knew what pork roll was, but they were disgusted when I told them it was delicious when served on a Kaiser roll with eggs, cheese and ketchup. \u00a0When I brought ham and cheese to school they\u2019d mock me for eating a \u201cfilthy animal.\u201d \u00a0It followed that I too was filthy. \u00a0When I ate my p.b. and j. sandwiches during Passover, the kids \u2014 who all brought matzo and cheese sandwiches \u2014 would stare at me like I was peeing on their shoes. \u00a0I\u2019d never had a matzo before, so during Passover I asked a kid named Ethan if he would like to swap his matzo with turkey for my p.b. and j. on a hard roll. \u00a0He told me that I could go to hell.<\/p>\n But I\u2019ll give them one thing, the kids at Alan B. Shepherd Middle School could be pretty damned witty with their Jersey bashing:<\/p>\n \u201cIsaac\u2019s mom\u2019s driving? \u00a0Hell, no, I\u2019m not getting in her car! \u00a0She\u2019s from Jersey!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s right, you don\u2019t even think Gino\u2019s East is real pizza. \u00a0You\u2019re from New Jersey, so you like those wimpy thin slices, all greasy and sloppy.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cHey, for field trips growing up, did you guys go to the place in the tall grass where they whacked that guy in The Godfather? \u00a0That was, like, the next town over from you, right?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cJersey? \u00a0Aren\u2019t there lots of Irish out there. \u00a0I\u2019ll bet your Catholic, too, right? \u00a0Don\u2019t they, like, not even have bar mitzvahs?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n It quickly became clear to me that I had one of two ways of trying to survive in this hostile new environment. \u00a0Option 1: I could stick to being myself, the kid from The Dirty Jerz. \u00a0I could retaliate, poke fun right back at these damn cornfielders for their Chicago-style \u201cpizza,\u201d which everyone with a brain knows is just an abomination, the messy bastard child of lasagna and some sort of tomato pie. \u00a0I could keep calling it soda no matter how many kids giggled. \u00a0This, of course, would result in me being branded the outcast, the uncircumcised misfit from The East.<\/p>\n Or there was Option 2: I could adapt. \u00a0I could change. \u00a0I could try to become one of\u2026 them.<\/p>\n I chose the latter option. \u00a0I tried to mold myself into a Chicagoan. \u00a0I cheered for the Bulls even though I didn\u2019t give a damn about basketball or Michael Jordan or Scottie Pippen. \u00a0When other kids took off for the Indiana dunes during the summer, I joined them, even though those dunes had nothing on Long Beach Island, Cape May, hell, even Belmar. \u00a0I went swimming with schoolmates in Lake Michigan, a shimmering blue body of water that was so clean it terrified me.<\/p>\n Pop<\/em>. \u00a0I even called it pop. \u00a0I ran over that word hundreds of times in my mind until I engrained it into my East Coast psyche.<\/p>\n Eventually, my chameleon methods seemed to work. \u00a0I made what could loosely be called friends at that school. \u00a0A stricter definition would be \u201cpeople I could be seen with at lunch tables.\u201d \u00a0But, in seventh grade, that\u2019s not something you just pass up.<\/p>\n Over time, I found pretending to be someone else exhausting. \u00a0I was not a Chicagoan, no matter how hard I tried to be. \u00a0I was a Jersey Boy. \u00a0I was made in the Garden State. \u00a0(Yeah, that\u2019s right, Jersey\u2019s called The Garden State, not The Paper Mill State.) \u00a0Out in Illinois, surrounded on all four flat sides by Jewel grocery stores and Old Style billboards, who was I? \u00a0What the hell was I doing there? \u00a0Transplanted from my cracked blacktop, my sand-swept home, I began to wonder if Deerfield\u2019s loamy soils were just too rich for me.<\/p>\n Still, I told myself, I was there. \u00a0I had to do the best I could.<\/p>\n The first girl I dated \u2014 or \u201cwent steady\u201d with, as they said out there in those days \u2014 was named Michelle, Michelle Something-or-other-stein. \u00a0She was a rich Jewish girl with these pug-like puffy eyes and she was three inches taller than me. \u00a0But she had a nice rack and decent curves, which, again, in seventh grade, is not something you just pass up. \u00a0I still don\u2019t know why she agreed to go out on a date with me. \u00a0I don\u2019t think it was a pity date, maybe more of a curious sociological experiment she wanted to undertake. \u00a0Our first date consisted of us making out in a parking lot behind a movie theatre. \u00a0After a good minute or two, I slipped my hand up her shirt, making my move toward the bra strap. \u00a0Out of nowhere, she pulled away from me and tried to strike up a conversation.<\/p>\n \u201cSo, you\u2019re from Jersey?\u201d she asked, chuckling awkwardly, like she was desperate to get me talking about something, anything.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d I huffed out as I slid my hand out of her shirt in defeat. \u00a0What the hell was she doing? \u00a0Here I was about to round second base and she wants to talk about where I grew up? \u00a0What the hell is wrong with these people?<\/p>\n \u201cI heard people from New Jersey have health and mental problems because of the stuff that washes up on the shore. \u00a0They basically swim in toxic waste, you know?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh yeah?\u201d I said, trying but failing to peel my eyes off of Michelle\u2019s boobies, which were bobbing mere inches from my face.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah. \u00a0My mom told me that there\u2019s condoms and needles on the beaches, all this shit that they dump in the water up in New York.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI saw a used tampon in the sand once,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cReally? \u00a0Gross!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt was all wet and soggy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd bloody?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGod, I bet you\u2019re so glad you got outta there!\u201d<\/p>\n I laughed aloud. \u00a0How wrong this girl was.<\/p>\n See, I had been hoping my tough East Coast roots would score me some street cred in Chicagoland. \u00a0After all, I was a Jersey Boy and this was an affluent Jewish sleeper community with country clubs and organic grocery stores, even in the mid-nineties, way before the organic thing became super hip. \u00a0These kids all had Audis and Volvos just waiting for them to turn sixteen so they could wreck them after drinking a bunch of wine coolers in their friend\u2019s basement. \u00a0Compared to these Chia Pet yuppies, I thought I\u2019d seem edgy, maybe even a bit of bad ass. \u00a0I thought this might help me get some action.<\/p>\n It didn\u2019t really work out that way. \u00a0I never got a second chance to try for Michelle\u2019s tits. \u00a0She dumped me the next day via a note written on ruled paper and passed underneath my desk during English class. \u00a0It said: \u201cIsaac, it\u2019s been fun. \u00a0:-) \u00a0But let\u2019s break up. \u00a0K? \u00a0Cool. \u00a0Bye. \u00a0Michelle. \u00a0XOXO.\u201d<\/p>\n This set the tone for the rest of the semester. \u00a0Months passed and I still never rounded second base. \u00a0Rich Jewish tits still eluded me. \u00a0So did any meaningful friendships. \u00a0I hadn\u2019t been invited to join a schoolmate at temple, let alone attend a bar or bat mitzvah. \u00a0It seemed every weekend someone was having a huge party, becoming a man or a woman, getting tons of money and presents. \u00a0The kids would all come into school with personalized T-shirts announcing the mitzvahs they had attended. \u00a0\u201cI Rocked All Night @ Eugene Cohen\u2019s Bar Mitzvah! 9-20-95.\u201d \u00a0\u201cBetsy Orenstein Became a Woman and All I Got Was This Bat Mitzvah T-Shirt!\u201d \u00a0I felt like a loser in my sun-bleached Quicksilver threads. \u00a0When I turned thirteen, no one noticed. \u00a0No one wished me a happy birthday, not even my teachers. \u00a0I brought some of my mom\u2019s homemade cupcakes into class, but nobody ate them, not even the fat-ass kids.<\/p>\n When I told some classmates that I couldn\u2019t go to Six Flags (they call it Great America out there, not Great Adventure like they do in Jersey) with them because my mom said she couldn\u2019t afford it, the last rich nail was driven into my East Coast coffin.<\/p>\n Option 2 had failed me. \u00a0I had tried to squeeze myself into their uniform, but it didn\u2019t fit. \u00a0I was now a boy without a tribe.<\/p>\n One Saturday that winter, I was perusing CDs at Best Buy. \u00a0I bought an album by Less Than Jake, a punk-ska band from Florida that I had followed for a year or two. \u00a0Losing Streak<\/em> was filled with a dozen or so poppy, punchy songs, one of which started off with a recording of what sounded like a 50s-style barbershop quartet. \u00a0It went like this:<\/p>\n I\u2019m from New Jersey and I\u2019m proud about it. <\/em><\/p>\n I love the Garden State. <\/em><\/p>\n I\u2019m from New Jersey and I brag about it. <\/em><\/p>\n I think it\u2019s simply great. <\/em><\/p>\n All of the other states throughout the nation <\/em><\/p>\n may mean a lot to some, <\/em><\/p>\n but I\u2019ll pick to New Jersey <\/em><\/p>\n for New Jersey is like no other, <\/em><\/p>\n I\u2019m glad that\u2019s where I\u2019m from.<\/em><\/p>\n I remember listening to that intro a dozen times as I walked along Deerfield Road, noticing how there were no empty beer cans or McDonald\u2019s wrappers littering the side of the street. \u00a0I hit the skip back button on my Discman to hear it again and again from the beginning of the track. \u00a0Finally, I listened to the song all the way through.<\/p>\n Of course, when Less Than Jake kicked in after these proud New Jersey brothers of mine finished their little ditty, the tone shifted drastically. \u00a0The song, after all, is titled \u201cNever Going Back to New Jersey.\u201d<\/p>\n Well, I thought, I sure as hell am. by Isaac James Baker I quickly learned to apologize when people asked me where I was from. \u00a0It just made things easier to get that out of the way early. \u00a0It was obvious to the kids in school that I … Continue reading
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\nISAAC JAMES BAKER<\/strong> was born in Belmar, New Jersey, in 1983. He grew up surfing and causing trouble on the Jersey Shore long before words like \u201cSnookie\u201d and \u201cThe Situation\u201d further diminished the Shore\u2019s already terrible reputation. He writes poetry, short stories, and novels, and is working on his master\u2019s degree in fiction writing from Johns Hopkins University. His novel, Broken Bones<\/em>, the story of a young man\u2019s struggle in a psychiatric ward for anorexics, is forthcoming from The Historical Pages Company. He lives in Washington, D.C.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"