I’ve been fighting it all my life. I can tell what people think when they look at me, but I can’t help it—I’m a hick trapped in a big city.

I tried to deny it at first. I listened to rap and tried grinding—as the kids are calling it these days—but a fateful trip to Mad Ave put the kibosh on that. Some 30-year-old named Falco Albuquerque started dancing with my friend, and I was stuck entertaining his even creepier and older friend. One night of that was enough to scare me away.

Play me some country, and I will show you some moves that don’t involve the creepy guy in the corner grossly invading your personal space.

I attempted shopping at some chic stores to reinvent myself with a hip, new style. This backfired as many of the styles confused or frightened me, and the prices were more than I could make from selling my kidney.

I even went so far as to diversify my weekend plans—meaning doing something besides going bowling or watching movies on a Friday night. The only things to do in my hometown were go bowling or drive 20 minutes to see a movie—it’s all I know.

I tried to branch out by going to a musical. Of course I chose a local production of “Reefer Madness,” which consisted of an extremely stoned audience and even worse actors. All the wrong people were in the nude scenes, and my eyes are still burning.

But no matter what I try, my hick tendencies continue. I don’t ogle that hottie in the sports car; I’m staring at the dude with the diesel truck and cutoff sleeves. I have enough plaid in my closet to make Al Borland jealous. I have been to a rodeo and actually understood the scoring beyond staying on/falling off. I have hung out at Wal-Mart for fun. I was actually entertained by a tractor and truck pull at the fair. I have been to parties in fields and machine sheds. And I won’t lie; I really do think your tractor’s sexy.

When I went home this past weekend, I broke out my Daisy Duke shorts and embraced the redneck within. No hometown weekend would be complete without watching the local high school football game and—just throwing this out there—Luke Swan, I love you and hope you get well soon, but my high school beat your high school. In your face!

There was a field party after the game, and I was following a friend there. A deer ran in front of him, but luckily he stopped in time. However, the deer was taking its sweet time getting out of the way, and this young man is not known for his patience. He gunned it and ran the deer over. To add insult to injury, he threw the deer in the back of the Jeep and took it with him. The post-game field party was celebrated with pizza and venison for everyone.

While home is a relief from the stress of Madtown, I don’t quite belong in little old Dickeyville anymore. My high school friends give me crap for being a “big city girl.” Because I have only milked a cow once, refuse to try a dip of Skoal and haven’t actually competed in a tractor or truck pull, no one there sees me as a true hick.

So, I am trapped between two worlds. I listen to my country music, but only when my roommate is gone. I will hang out at my friend’s farm, but mysteriously disappear when it comes to chore time. I suppose I am just a “Redneck Woman” who likes to “Party Like a Rockstar.”

If you want to rock out to some Achy Breaky Heart or other classic country song, e-mail Megan at mcorbett2@wisc.edu.