My last year of college involved a class schedule that was a bit slap dash. I had to scramble to satisfy all the graduation requirements that I had not looked into since freshman year. To complete one of my science requirements, I picked up an anthropology course. The class was large and took place in an auditorium with seating that ramped upwards closer to the ceiling with each additional row. We began class with a short film about cultural clashes in New Guinea. The film showed the first contact made with a particularly remote tribe a few decades back and then flashed forward to that culture now. The anthropologists made a point to show the current day villagers the video and images of their former selves. The piece that stuck with me was how the current “modern” tribe members reacted to images of their former lives. They pointed and laughed at their parents and themselves back then and mocked the clothing and behaviors they saw themselves perform as backward and shameful. I attempted to illustrate to my classmates how disappointing I saw this to be, but not one seemed to see the perspective that ridiculing one’s heritage was very denigrating to one’s cultural journey. Frustrated and a bit off-put, I dropped the class promptly and picked up botany.

Going back to where I was born and raised is always interesting, but with each passing year the experience becomes less intriguing. Every visit I become more isolated and further from the ins and outs of the lives of the people I used to mix with quite regularly. The wild, adventurous young people I knew before have transitioned into job-attending, bill-paying, carseat-owning adults. I have a more difficult time having my attention rapt by stories of workplace success and diapers, as I can get all that business back here in the Rectangles if I want. Things were different in my teens though. I had moved away just as I was about to get my driver’s license and I came back for visits possessing one. It granted me a kind of access that I never had before. Suddenly I could go anywhere I pleased and see everything and everyone I wanted. Having spent some much of my youth isolated and abiding by the strict social restrictions of my parents, the freedom was intoxicating and energizing. I also had the benefit of being fresh and new again, after being gone for a while. I finally possessed a modicum of cachet and mystery. People I never associated before with were willing to open a few doors and say hello. I was used to being mundane and restricted, so being sought out and unfettered felt like a gasoline fire in my mind.

Social activities packed my trips and my parents would joke (although there was an underlying thread of disapproval) that they did not see me at all during our 3-4 day stays. I was invited to play tennis with girls I said no more than 10 words to in high school, went water skiing for the first time in my life, spend so much time being pulled aside by people I barely knew, and had friend’s parents heap their delight on me at my return. When I took a brief moment to consider it all in the few moments I was alone, I was fascinated and felt like I was a different person, though I knew at heart I was very much the same. One evening I received a phone call while I was momentarily at my grandparents’ house. I was asked by a guy named Jordan (whom I was only the most casual of acquaintances with in high school) to hang out. I was pleased to spend time out with someone new and broaden my circle, so I accepted. He picked me up from my grandparents’ in the big green truck he was restoring (a classic pastime). As we pulled away, I asked what we should do, as plans were heretofore unmade, and he handed me a flyer. It was printed poorly on brightly colored paper and exclaimed in blurrily photocopied handwriting The Illest across the top. Someone had handwritten the whole thing including date and location details with a Sharpie and attempted to illustrate the title in a style of letters that one would see on an Affliction brand tee shirt. I turned to Jordan with a pointed eyebrow and held up the flyer. In my friendliest curious voice (I did my best to be thoroughly likable on these trips so as to make the most of my opportunities) I inquired what or who The lllest was. Little did I know it was to be both a what and a who.

It was nearly dusk and the constant cloud cover was greying with the setting sun as we left town and drove out through thickly greened woods and pastures into sprawling farming country. Though I had lived in the area for my entire life, we took a few roads and turns that I had never traveled before and pulled off on a dirt road before heading down a steep, rocky embankment and around a bend. We passed behind a cow farm with its multitude of dilapidated barns into a field that was filled with dozens and dozens of vehicles, most of which were trucks although there was the occasional car. Jordan circled til he found a somewhat damp, grassy place to park, we hopped out, and started walking toward a gathering a hundred yards away. I did my best to tamp down the noticeable swish in my walk and pulled my baseball cap low near my eyes to raise my intimidation factor (from nil to slightly above nil). I knew that I was reaching to hang out with a crowd I had never been with before, but I still wanted to have a nice time and that meant not standing out too far.

The group was perched atop a hill that surrounded on two sides four, silver cattle gates that had been connected to make a square. The group was a fairly equal mix of girls and guys and everyone was talking furiously amongst themselves. Jordan was friendly but not exactly the talkative sort so I occupied myself by listening to more of what was happening around me rather than saying much. I was also aware that this was not a place I felt comfortable flouncing around in, as I could see a few hardcore country types, a few of whom recognized me and chose to keep distance. Snatches of conversation and extrapolation told me that we were going to be watching some sort of grudge match boxing and its legal status was somewhat uncertain. We lives in a small community that still had laws on the books about liquor and beer not being sold on weekends and at one point was rumored to have more churches per capita than anywhere else in the country. The town had a goody-goody reputation to uphold. My mind started to bill this event to be a bit like Footloose but with punching and blood rather than dancing and sass mouth. Jordan and I began to migrate around the group separately which gave me the opportunity to practice being butch (in a reserved way) while still listening to what was to happen. My cousin was there was a friend of hers whom I didn’t particularly care. She fervently attested that the first fight was between two guys that honestly and truly hated each other. Her eyes were wide with blazing sincerity as she explained that they had years of bad blood (although she was slim on the details beyond vague claims of slighted egos). I moved on. Next I was told by a guy that I thought to be a friend of my other cousin that the owner of the farm was a guy with a hook for a hand. Everyone was wary of said farmer because at one point had apparently threatened to tear off a cop’s junk with his hook hand. A girl I knew from elementary school showed up and told me that there was to be a girls fight. She pursed her lips and wistfully pined that there were a few girls she would like to beat down. There was wild, excited talk and conjecture everywhere as we all waited for what was promised to be a hot mess of actioA light misting began to turn to showers as the crowd pressed in to watch as two people entered the gate square from opposite sides. The spectacle started with name calling and taunting from one person to the other. A girl near me explained that these were not the starting match openers that had been promised. One look at the posturing and large space between the two players convinced me of that straight away. The two guys were probably 17-19 and clearly not feeling overly enthusiastic to get to the actual punching, but rather stuck with throwing insults instead. After a few minutes of this, the two guys in the ring finally connected physically and the crowd learned how short and miserable fight watching actually ends up being. A few fists thrown and caught sporadically over the course of two minutes and the matter was done. Round one was in the history books and it was definitely a disappointment. Next up was a wiry fellow a few years ahead of me at school and some other guy. That fight was about as eventful as the first. The crowd’s interest flagged rapidly. Two girls made their way into the ring. Both were poorly prepared as they had long hair hanging loose at their shoulders. If they were planning a boxing match, they gave that up promptly as they rolled on the ground pulling hair and a bit of slapping and scratching. That was the last memorable part of the event. I am not sure who The Illest title went to, but they did not have to do a whole lot to get it or whether it was something one would actually want.

We left shortly after and moved on to other activities. A day or two later I surrendered whatever mystique of novelty I had momentarily possessed as I headed back to the Rectangles. I did not try to share and explain my attendance at The Illest to my parents although I definitely wanted to do so. I guess I could not really explain the ironic specialness of event that was all hype and exactly zero follow through. The event sounded fascinating in theory, but it was most impressive if you did not actually attend. The idea of illegal grudge matches hashing out country-style justice and settling old debts sounds WAY cooler than a lot of soggy hicks hurling insults at each other in a muddy pasture. I don’t know everyone else felt about our glorified playground tiff, but as an outsider, it fascinated me far more than if it had actually delivered on its promises. I don’t believe I would have enjoyed an actual bloody fightfist as much as watching overheated young adults pretend they were a big deal and then fail to deliver. Beyond the all of that, I had the chance to watch the whole thing from the perspective of someone who did not belong in that world anymore. I wandered around, took note and was forced to realize this world was not mine anymore. And that was okay. I do wish I had taken some pictures, though I don’t think I’d laugh at them.