And so, on that day of January Thirteenth in the year of MMXVIII, we did. After the vote had been tallied, we sent notice of our secession to both local and global media outlets, along with the sheriff of Real County, the governor of Texas, and the president of the United States. As dusk fell across our streets, we filed out of the town hall, gathered around the poles in our yards, and took down Old Glory. We tucked the flags into our garbage cans, and then we sat in our houses, radios off, televisions off, computers off, sobered by what we had done. The initial thrill had faded. Now, exhausted, we felt only fear. Holding hands with our spouses and our children and our parents and our neighbors, we waited for the repercussions, for the arrival of the humvees and the helicopters and the tanks and the bombers, for our rebellion to be crushed by a show of force. But nothing happened. Nobody came. Nobody cared. At dawn, those of us who hadn’t been able to sleep looked around and realized that our community was still standing. We were free.
Our town had been called Plainfield. Although we had liked the name well enough for a town, we were concerned the name wouldn’t seem stately enough for a nation. And while we didn’t regret seceding, we weren’t ashamed of our origins either. In fact, we felt a great deal of nostalgia for our homeland. So, in memory of our former country, that was what we decided to name our new nation: America.
HOME OF THE TRAITOR
Though the vote to secede was unanimous, there had in fact been three abstentions: Alex Cruz, Tony Osin, and Sam Holliday, who had all been absent from that final town hall meeting. A group of us drove around that next morning to deliver the news about the secession. Alex, who lives in a motor home with flat tires behind the house where his grandparents raised him, is apolitical, an unemployed millennial, and absorbed the news with an expression of utter indifference before returning to a social media app. Tony, who works as a potter in the woodshed behind the house that his children bought for him, is apolitical, a proud alcoholic, and greeted the news with disinterest after being assured that the price of vodka wouldn’t be affected. We knew better than to expect such a composed reaction from Sam Holliday, which was why we put off visiting him until last. A Vietnam vet who had dragged his wounded sergeant to safety through a muddy rainforest infested with vipers and cobras after being shot in his shoulder, who in his youth had attained the distinguished rank of Eagle Scout by constructing trail markers for canyons in a state park, and who later had worked for the federal government for decades as a bespectacled physician at Veterans Affairs, Sam loved the United States dearly, and had made clear at various town hall meetings in the past that he considered the proposal to secede a foolish enterprise. As we pulled into his driveway, he stepped out onto the porch in a denim shirt and a bolo tie with a shotgun in hand, a grizzled old widower with such rugged good looks that admittedly most of us were infatuated with him. The weather that morning was cool, only thirteen degrees centigrade, and some of us shivered, wishing we had brought jackets, but he looked perfectly comfortable with the temperature, standing strong and proud on the porch. Sam was a local hero, the most admired figure in our community, and we’d always imagined that if we ever actually seceded he’d be the one to lead the new nation, yet the more convinced we’d become that seceding was necessary, the more adamantly opposed he’d been to the very notion. A United States flag was waving on the pole in his yard.
Those of us there were led by Belle Clanton, a fiery libertarian who’d spearheaded the campaign to secede, whose voice that morning held a tremor of insecurity.
[Exchange as recorded in the journal of Ward Hernandez, barkeeper]
Sam spat in the dirt and then said, “What brings y’all out here?”
“Just wanted to let you know that we seceded,” Belle said.
Sam gave us a squint.
“You can’t,” Sam said.
“We did,” Belle said.
The tension in the air was remarkable.
“We notified the county, the state, and the federal government. Nobody made any attempt to stop us from seceding. Nobody even tried telling us that seceding isn’t allowed,” Belle said.
Sam sneered and said, “Because nobody is taking you seriously. You can’t just secede by saying you’ve seceded. This land is still under the jurisdiction of the United States. You’re still going to have to obey the traffic laws. You’re still going to have to follow the health code. You’re still going to have to pay taxes.”
“I didn’t even pay taxes to that country when we were citizens of it,” Belle said.
“Ditto,” Trent said.
“Same,” Clint said.
“We’re going to need you to take down that flag,” Belle said.
Sam stared at us as if trying to gauge how many of us he could shoot before we would shoot him.
“Ward’s had a Mexican flag flying at his place for years, and ain’t nobody ever bothered him about it,” Sam said.
We had to admit he had a point there. He watched spitefully as we drove back toward the road. The United States flag was still waving on the pole. Even after everything that’s transpired in our nation since, visitors can still see that same flag flying in the yard when touring the home of Sam Holliday (see: MAP OF AMERICA, SITE OF HISTORICAL IMPORTANCE #7).
CULTURAL REFORMS
Visitors to our country often remark upon the unique culture here. Admittedly, when we realized we could do whatever we wanted, we were overcome by an astonishing sense of freedom. The possibilities were overwhelming. That town hall meeting the week after we seceded was just as crowded as the week before. Even Alex and Tony were there, looking curious about what would happen now that our town was a country. Sam Holliday, though, was once again notably absent, which made many of us anxious. Sam had never missed a town hall meeting before we’d seceded. He was an intelligent person. He was a respected person. And he was known to be headstrong. Belle Clanton kept glancing at the door from where she was presiding over the meeting, as if she was worried he might come storming into town hall at any second.
The first person who rose to speak at the meeting was Riley Whipper, who at the time was an all-star volleyball player over at the school, and was recognizable as being the only citizen of our country with a septum piercing and bright pink hair.
[Transcript as recorded by Pam Cone, secretary]
Riley Whipper: “I think we need to talk about whether we’re going to continue to address each other by our genitals.”
Crowd: (silence)
Riley Whipper: “Unless you all actually are as obsessed with your genitals as you seem to be.”
Crowd: (murmuring)
Melanie Curbeam: “Riley, I think the rest of us need a little bit of clarification on what exactly you’re talking about.”
Riley Whipper: “You there, Bill Combs, do you consider your penis your defining characteristic as a person?”
Bill Combs: “Uh, I mean, I really—”
Riley Whipper: “And you, Terri Epps, do you consider your vagina your defining characteristic as a person?”
Terri Epps: “Now, I just, I mean—”
Riley Whipper: (points dramatically at crowd) “Or are we more than our genitals?”
Crowd: (looking at each other)
Riley Whipper: “Official documents to some people are addressed to a Mr. Official documents to other people are addressed to a Ms. I understand that these are meant as titles of respect. I do. I don’t, however, understand why there has to be separate titles for us based on what genitals we have. Mr., Ms., that’s what those titles are saying. ‘Honored person with a penis.’ ‘Honored person with a vagina.’ I mean, of all of the possible information about a person you could attach to a title, why is sex the information that we include?”
Adrian Moreau: “Um, arguably those titles are in reference to gender, rather than sex.”
Presley Johnson: “Not all men have a penis, and not all women have vaginas.”
Kendra Goldberg: “And while we’re on the topic, those aren’t the only gender
s anyway.”
Riley Whipper: “Okay yeah and that’s exactly the point. In the United States, there are two official genders, and you’re forced to identify as and be identified as one or the other. And, I don’t know, I just think that we should have a different system here. I think we should address each other by a neutral title, like Mx., so that people who aren’t a conventional gender aren’t mislabeled on a daily basis. So that people who are trans, who might be thinking about transitioning or might be starting to transition but might not be ready to tell other people about it, won’t be put in a situation where you have to lie about what you are or reveal what you are before you’re ready. I want to live in a decent country, in a country that treats every citizen equally. We could be that country.”
Crowd: (whispering)
Riley Whipper: “I mean, seriously, are there any of you here who are so obsessed with your particular gender that you’d be opposed to being addressed by a neutral title?”
Mike Cooks: (raising hand) “I’m not here to naysay, I’m not against the idea, but I’d just like to go on the record and say that I actually do consider my genitals my defining characteristic as a person.”
Bev Whittaker: (looking flushed) “Well. Well. That’s just fine, Michael, thank you for sharing that.”
The motion passed by a narrow margin. The next person to take the podium was Tim Kelly. Tim works as a furniture carpenter, has a reputation for fine craftsmanship, and that evening had dirty blond bangs sticking out from under the bent brim of a ballcap rippled with sweat stains.
[Transcript as recorded by Pam Cone, secretary]
Tim Kelly: “Do you know how many countries there are that don’t use the metric system? I’ll tell you. Myanmar, Liberia, and the United States. That’s it. Those are the only countries that haven’t gone metric yet. Literally every other country in the world is metric. I was reading about this just the other day. I don’t know about the rest of you, but if you handed me a map of the world, I wouldn’t be able to point to Myanmar, and certainly wouldn’t know where to find Liberia, either. Am I even pronouncing the names of those places right?”
Angeline Ramirez: “Tim, are you saying you want us to switch to the metric system?”
Tim Kelly: “I think we got to ask ourselves, what type of country do we want to be? A modern, advanced, innovative country, at the forefront of science and industry? Or a country like the United States?”
Morgan Banks: “If we were going to go metric, then we’d have to change all the signs.”
Bob Tupper: (whistling) “Feet would become meters.”
Pete Christie: (frowning) “Gallons would be liters.”
Louise Banks: “We’d have to get a new scale for the bathroom, probably a new thermometer too.”
Crowd: (mumbling)
Tim Kelly: (squinting) “What’s that back there?”
Jesse Fankhauser: (tentatively speaking up) “Just sounds like a lot of work, is all.”
Tim Kelly: “Oh come on, y’all know how to use a calculator. God knows most of your speedometers and measuring cups are already labeled with both systems of measurement anyway. You’d just have to start using the little numbers instead of the big ones.”
Crowd: (muttering)
Tim Kelly: “I’m a carpenter, y’all. There’s nobody whose daily life would be more affected by this than me.”
Bev Whittaker: (slapping knee) “I say the hell with it, I’m ninety-one years old and I’m ready for some change, you know what I mean?”
The motion passed by a wide margin. The final person to take the podium was Antonio Vega. Antonio had formerly volunteered as the editor of the town newsletter, was now charged with the task of editing a national newsletter, and that evening had a shirt pocket lined with assorted pens.
[Transcript as recorded by Pam Cone, secretary]
Antonio Vega: “I’ve been running this bulletin a long time, and there’s something that’s always bothered me, and that’s the issue of copyrighted words. Words that start out as brand names. Dumpster. Popsicle. Rollerblade. Laundromat. In the United States, words like that are trademarked by different companies, which means if you use it, then you’re required to capitalize it, or you’re liable to get sued.”
Bob Tupper: (murmuring) “Popsicles are the most overrated food.”
Pete Christie: (muttering) “Rollerblades were a truly strange fad.”
Jenny Bergquist: “Antonio, you’re saying that companies could actually sue people just for using lowercase letters instead of uppercase ones?”
Antonio Vega: (grimacing) “Language is supposed to belong to every citizen. Language is supposed to be a public good. Letting companies lock up certain words just infuriates me out of principle.”
Rick Pinkney: “You know, there’s always seemed something arrogant to me about capitalized words.”
Caroline Russo: “I believe the technical term for that is proper nouns.”
Julia Palmer: “As opposed to common nouns.”
Rick Pinkney: “Well and now that’s exactly the problem. That there is a class system. ‘Proper nouns’ and ‘common nouns.’ That’s snobby is what that is. Invented by a bunch of coastal elites.”
Deb Coots: “Kinda useful for words at the start of a sentence.”
Adam Smith: “And the names of people.”
Bev Whittaker: (wistfully) “I’ve always liked getting to be capitalized.”
Antonio Vega: “I’m not talking about people. I’m talking about trademarks and copyrights. Heck, I don’t know if our country even recognizes those things. But in the United States, that’s what’s been happening for years. I think we need to decide whether we’re going to allow that to happen here.”
The motion was passed unanimously. Dumpsters are now dumpsters. Popsicles are popsicles. Rollerblades are rollerblades. Laundromats are laundromats. Realtors are realtors, frisbees are frisbees, jacuzzis are jacuzzis, sharpies are sharpies, tupperware is tupperware, styrofoam is styrofoam, velcro is velcro, jello is jello, speedos are speedos, chapstick is chapstick, kleenex is kleenex, post-its are post-its, q-tips are q-tips, band-aids are band-aids, ping-pong is ping-pong, and vaseline, goddamnit, is vaseline. In the immortal words of Antonio Vega, now inscribed on a brass monument of a dumpster commissioned by Antonio Vega (see: MAP OF AMERICA, PLACE OF GENERAL INTEREST #17), “A word cannot be owned; a word is not property; on this day, in this country, let all words be free!”
For many of us, leaving the meeting that night was the first time we’d ever felt a true sense of nationalism. In a single session, we had reformed gendered titles, converted to the metric system, and overturned copyright law decisively. Meanwhile, across the border, the United States government had been shut down for days, and was indefinitely. Capitol Hill couldn’t even manage to pass a budget.
THE FIRST TOURIST
Visitors often seem surprised to hear it, but for us the transition from “town within the United States” to “nation bordering the United States” was relatively simple. The process was simplified by the fact that there were no foreign agencies operating within our borders. The United States Postal Service, which most visitors probably know is broke as hell, had long ago shuttered the only post office in town, forcing us to drive to the next town over to pick up our mail. The nearest police station was the next town over. The nearest fire department was the next town over. The nearest military recruitment office, secretary of state, and veterans home were towns away. Visitors to our country will sometimes see vehicles belonging to foreign agencies: police cruisers operated by Texas, fire engines from Real County, generally cutting through the country on the international highway that intersects Main Street. We don’t mind these intrusions by foreign entities. Our country has a policy of open borders. Anybody is welcome to cross our borders at any time, regardless of citizenship, with no restrictions. Many Americans in fact still work in the United States.
Visitors sometimes express concern that the lack of checkpoints at our borders might po
se a security risk. But we’ve found an open-border policy to have a variety of benefits for our country. After nearly a century of essentially no tourists whatsoever, we’ve experienced a relative boom. Notably, just over a month after our secession saw the arrival of our first tourist, a Dutch national named Johannes Dijkstra, who alighted from a semi that March and headed straight for the saloon on Main Street (see: MAP OF AMERICA, DINING AND SHOPPING #2). Just imagine, dear visitor, a foreign hipster with a handlebar mustache and a jaw of stubble stepping through the swinging doors of the saloon at high noon, wearing pastel shorts and a sweaty tank top with a pair of knockoff wayfarers hanging from the neck, carrying a banjo case plastered with chiquita stickers and a duffel bag coated in dust. Those of us at the bar couldn’t help but stare.
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