Maybe I am a green field?

Among the mysteries of my early education is this: Why did our elementary school music books contain the song “Marching to Pretoria,” and why did we sing it so much? I discovered much later that it was a marching song, sung by the Afrikaaners during the Boer war, but this would certainly have meant nothing to me in second grade, and, frankly, has little significance to me now. I remain confused.

It’s strange that the song would be a standout point in my memory. But stand out it does. Along with the textbook: Greenfield U.S.A. Of all the textbooks, in all the classrooms, in all the gin joints of public education of the late 60s, why I would specifically recall that book remains an unresolved question. Even now that I’ve acquired a copy.

Yes, I did. It’s one of the marvels of the internet age, that the title Greenfield U.S.A. needed only flit through my head at an Amazon moment, for me to discover that I could get one. For 19¢ + shipping. “Aha,” I thought. “Here is my opportunity to discover why I am so indelibly marked by blandness that my college art professor decreed my efforts to be trite, except for the one where I accidentally smudged the chalk, and gave the child-subject an evil glint.”

Surely it all goes back to Greenfield U.S.A. Or, at least, Greenfield U.S.A. must serve as a token--a representation encapsulating all that shaped my developing aesthetic into something that now struggles, blandly, to break free of its cultural tupperware.

I examined the book. It was smaller than I remembered. (surprise!) Copyrighted in 1964, by D.C. Heath and Company, this particular copy was stamped by the Board of Education, Pittsburg, Kansas, which probably only retired it a couple years ago when they discovered it makes no reference to intelligent design.

I continued to explore the text, determined to discover--now, with my razor-keen insight--the insidious presumptions foisted upon my young brain, which doomed me now to eternal blandness.

And I think I found the key. Like it or not, Greenfield U.S.A. is a perfectly pleasant book, exploring life in front of and behind the scenes of the classic, Main Street-focused town, which we’d all like to live in, but scarcely exists. And was very rapidly going out of business even in 1964. Of course I opened the book with questions and expectations related to gender-identity and ethnic diversity; all those things that hit an assortment of fans in the decades following the book’s publication, and I will highlight a few.

I wondered if women in Greenfield U.S.A had jobs. Ever. Suffice it to say that in most of the book's vignettes, they were moms, and wore uncomfortable clothes. However, there were minor exceptions. A female store clerk did sell Mary a red raincoat, there were female nurses in starched white dresses when that idiot Fred fell out of a tree and broke his leg, and there was this: Proving that those skills learned by eager girls in their Future Homemakers of America clubs still could come in useful, even if one didn’t find Mr. Right. Most reassuring.

Meanwhile, I discovered something that I had possibly not noticed at age 7: Policeman Bill was quite a studly muffin,
and it was therefore no wonder that the teen-girl-squad pictured below walked straight into oncoming traffic against the green light in order to elicit his intervention.
Most likely, however, they got more face-time with the same starched nurses who’d helped Fred with his leg.

I wondered if every person in Greenfield U.S.A was, by decree, of Euro-heritage, whitebread stock. And the answer is, mostly. Look closely, however, at this parade scene, and you’ll note that a man of possibly African/Asiatic heritage has sneaked into the background, catching the eye of the red-haired woman who is visible between the tuba and trumpet players. She is intrigued. The rest of the town is, fortunately, too distracted by the parade to be appalled.

So, no. Not too many people of color in Greenfield, but, if you keep reading, a very small chapter at the end of the book discusses “living in other places.” One of those other places is A City Neighborhood. Here, apparently, Tom could learn to swim in an ethnically diverse crowd, and--remarkably--seems none the worse for it. Did you ever wonder what happened to the “skinny guy” from your old comic books after he used the Charles Atlas method and punched out the bully? Well, now you know. Here he is, teaching Tom and the other boys to swim at the Boys’ Club in the Big City. Do not ask me what they are doing at the Girls’ Club. You already know: They are learning to wash heads of lettuce.

Well, anyway, at least I now know what’s wrong with me. Greenfield U.S.A presented life as it “should” be, and I--apparently--believed it. More or less. I don’t know. Maybe if Mary had said, “No. I don’t want a red raincoat, I want a lab coat, like Dr. March.” Or maybe if Mike had said, “No Dad, I don’t want to go fishing, I want to wash lettuce.” Maybe then, just that one slightly unexpected twist would have--like the butterfly effect--launched my immature neurons into a lifetime where feats of the imagination are easy, fresh, and unexpected.

But that didn’t happen. So, like acquiring a second language post-childhood, I continue to attempt to acquire creative spark, and a mind inclined that way. And Greenfield U.S.A has supplied a clue. I am bland because I was raised in abject blandness. I know now why thinking outside the tupperware box--to a mind forged in Greenfield--is as tough as learning Japanese.