I’m looking for a bumper sticker that says: “Reformed Redneck.” I want people to puzzle over what it’s supposed to mean. It could mean I’m rehabilitated, a criminal who’s turned his life around -- no longer a redneck. Or it might mean that, like a born-again Christian, I’ve returned to my redneck roots.

It’s a little bit of both.

Let me back up a bit here.

I was born a redneck and raised a redneck. It comes with growing up on a cattle ranch in the Arizona desert. As soon as I was old enough to understand a little about the world around me I started trying to escape this thing I was born into. I avoided the traditional trappings of the redneck at all costs, forgoing the cowboy boots, the big hat, the music and so on, because I never really liked being a redneck. I thought it made me different from my friends and other normal people, and normal was something I aspired to back then.

When I graduated high school and went away to college in the big city of Tucson I really thought I was finally free of my redneck past. No one there knew me or where I came from. I could be anything. I was not a redneck, never was.

I was missing the point.

There’s a saying that fits this. It’s along the lines of being able to take the kid out of his redneck roots, but not being able to take the redneck out of the kid. Something like that. I guess that’s because being a redneck is not really about boots and hats and suchlike.

A couple of incidents from my wanderings outside our borders helped me to a new understanding of my redneckishness. Let me expound.

The first occurred on a train in Switzerland, a land of consummately civilized people, who are definitely not rednecks. The train car was a nonsmoking one, but there was one yahoo blatantly ignoring the rules. Talking loudly, waving his cigarette around. Such crass flaunting of society’s standards is definitely non-standard in Switzerland. The Swiss don’t just live by the rules, they live for the rules. Everyone in that car was more than unhappy -- they were affronted. But, as is their nature, they were far too polite to say anything. I don’t think any of them even allowed themselves the satisfaction of throwing the offender a dirty look.

(It’s a cultural thing, this overwhelming politeness of the Swiss, and grist for another mill.)

Anyway, at home, I’d never say anything in that situation. Why? Because I hate confrontation, because he might have a gun, because ...

Because I’d be counting on some redneck to handle it. It’s one of the things they’re good at.

But, when it dawned on me that no one else was going to do diddly, I found myself, much to my surprise, walking over to the guy and saying something to the effect of, “Hey buddy, can’t you see the sign? No. Smoking.”

People applauded me when I went back to my seat.

For just that moment I wished for the cowboy hat I never owned, so I could tip it to them and smile graciously. It felt good.

Sort of like being back in the old west. Where you stand up for women, children and all the poor, frightened townfolks who are afraid of the marauding gunmen. Or inconsiderate smokers.

There’s more. I was in Prague, sitting at the end of this bridge that’s quite the tourist attraction, covered with arts and crafts stuff and people strolling their babies. The sun’s shining. There’s a tower at the end of the bridge, right next to where I was sitting. All very idyllic and touristy.

That’s when I noticed these peculiar raindrops. Big foamy ones. I looked up and these kids were up in the tower, spitting down at people. And people looked upset, but they were just dodging and grumbling, not saying anything.

Suddenly my streak rose up again and I stood up and pointed at the kids. Shouted, “Knock that off before I knock you off!” Or something similarly suitable.

And you know what? They did.

From these and similar episodes I have been forced to reevaluate what being a redneck means. It’s not just something you do or wear, it’s how you are. This is really frightening for me. All those years of education, much of it “higher.” Traveling. Contact with other cultures and ways of life. And I’m still a redneck at heart.

It became even clearer this summer when I spent time in my little hometown of Wickenburg, AZ. With my new awareness, I watched my doings a little closer and I noticed a few things. The friends that I hang out with there are definitely rednecks. They don’t dress like movie rednecks, but they are rednecks just the same. I actually know people who think “going snakin’” is a fun thing to do on Saturday night.

Most disturbing of all is that I fit right in with them. My speech patterns change. My gestures. Topics of conversation. A complete transformation.

There’s no escape.

Maybe being a redneck ain’t such a bad thing ‘tall. After all, it’s part of my heritage, ain’t it?

Welcome home, Eric.