Country Giiiiiiiirl, I Love you

Well, there you have it, folks. It’s 2025, and being a hillbilly, white-trash, gun-toting son of trailer park trash is in. May wonders never cease.

I just returned from a trip to New York City, where my eyes were opened to more Realtree hats and steel-toed boots than I see on a regular night out in my own hometown. But these trendy New Yorkers aren’t the only ones partaking in regrettable fashion choices. As of late, my sub-par Tinder dates and lackluster Hinge matches have offered me my own special education on the culture I grew up in — putting Chris Stapleton on the dive bar TouchTunes and asking me, without a hint of sarcasm, “Whatcha know about this?” As though I didn’t grow up in a town with a population of 200, a voter turnout of less than 20%, and a racial makeup whiter than a polar bear’s ass.

These Gen Z wannabes make me giggle. How many ex-boyfriends have I introduced to the world of shooting guns and backcountry hiking before I get credit where credit is due?

And to think: I can still recall being a little girl growing up in eastern Washington, begging God to let me live in Seattle, have a flip phone, and sneak out my bedroom window like all the suburban teenagers did in the movies. Now, the world I once tried to outgrow is being appropriated by city slickers and beach boys alike.

Well, to that I say: you can have it. Because never once have I so much enjoyed seeing my American lifestyle become mainstream. I love that everything I once hoped to hide about myself has now become something to be proud of. Country music, bonfires, horses, and some stylistically placed camo print are no longer echoes of white supremacy and American mediocrity, but tokens of independence and wildness.

I’ll take it. But next time some guy I’m dating tries to put on a country song I’ve been listening to since I was 8 years old (and hated at the time) and tries to educate me, I may have to inform him exactly where the hell I grew up.