Hoosier State

I spent a chunk of my recent vacation in the birthplace of legendary coach, Johnny Wooden. Yes, it was final destination, Hall, Indiana for me for the better part of a week. No, I didn’t go to any kind of shrine, mainly because as far as know there is no such shrine, although as Johnny Wooden’s 100 hundredth birthday is less than six months away (10/14/2010), perhaps it is high time my cousins get started on that.


My time in Indiana confirmed a theory some of my dear friends have made fun of to no end about, but I am Hoosier. I don’t mean Hoosier in the sense of rooting for the University of Indiana or being really into the movie Hoosiers. Instead, to answer the question someone as American and cultureless as me must face in Los Angeles, arguably the most cosmopolitan city in the world, on a daily basis – what are you? In fact, if it was a choice on the census or other such times one is forced to declare their ethnicity, I would gladly mark the Hoosier box with certainly and pride. I can claim just as much of a connection to Indiana as my friends who were born here to parents from places like China, Korea, Mexico, the Philippines and the Netherlands and have never lived a day of their lives in those foreign lands.


Both of my parents grew up in rural Indiana and even though they moved to Los Angeles long before I was born, I still have more biological relatives in Indiana than I do in LA. And if things continue as they are heading, when I am old and outlast all of my immediate family members and have no one left to care for me, save for my Indiana family, I will inevitably have to pack my bags and return (even though I was never there in the first place) to the Hoosier state to live out my old age. Okay, perhaps I can be a tad less pessimistic.

But my time in Indiana confirmed I am blessed beyond measure to have a pretty amazing family. Yes, we have our moments and there are a fair share of quirks and geeks, but I am glad I got to see within a little over a week most of the people on the planet who share my DNA. Also, I learned Truck Stops don’t generally sell tomatoes in case you ever wondered.