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Great Barrington, MA
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Bumper Sticker Chic

by Petria May

As you know, this country life is new for me. So when I see bumper stickers, I still read them. I am not yet accustomed to ranting, raving, smiling, or joking by proxy—your car, your self, apparently. For a while now, I've noticed that there are a lot of bumper stickers around these parts. There are a lot of people with a lot to say. Or so they think. Are you one of them?

After September 11 (I know, I know. We say this nowadays like it means before Christ and anno Domini—perhaps that is how some of us feel), when I was still a weekender who could wear a sedate smile all weekend and run home to the East Village if anything got too weird, I noticed a bumper sticker on an oversized, white, American pick-up truck in Lee, Massachusetts: "First Iraq, Then France". Dude, isn't that kind of extreme? Guess not. "That's it. I'm going home," I thought, "where I can talk to someone who knows how weird this is." No escape now.

So I had no choice but to set about the task of trying to figure out bumper sticker chic, the country equivalent to the urban political Tee shirt. Personally, I shun both (except for that 1970s Sesame Street Imaginary Friend T-shirt I snapped up when I was feeling particularly like an expatriate in the countryside). I do not claim to have great wisdom to impart—make no mistake—but maybe we can together discover something by revealing the language of some of the B.S.—I didn't make it up. B.S., perhaps justifiably, is short for bumper sticker.

In Pittsfield, Massachusetts on a white Subaru Outback: "Work Harder. Millions on Welfare Depend on You." Gee, I'll keep that in mind.

On Route 44 in Norfolk, Connecticut: "Fields not Fares." For a moment, I read "Fields not Fair" and became confused. The bumper sticker refers to a local debate raging over a proposed golf course which would straddle Canaan and Norfolk. On the same car: "War is not the Answer."

On a GMC Sonoma: "Where Have all the Hippies Gone?" If there are no hippies here, there are no hippies clear till California, I suspect.

"What part of Thou Shalt Not Kill Didn't You Understand?-God". I have never believed that I could actually tell anyone what God would think, say, or do. Then again, it wasn't my bumper sticker.

In Millerton, New York on a metallic green Subaru: "Cat Lovers Against the Bomb". A Labrador Retriever waited for its owner in the hatchback. The same car donned the ubiquitous yellow magnetic admonishment, "Support the Troops".

Citgo station parking lot: "Smile if You're not Wearing Any Underwear". Smile if you think this bumper sticker is silly.

On the back of a pick-up truck: "USA—Love it or Leave it". Changing this country, it seems, is no longer an option.

In Sheffield, Massachusetts on a Subaru: "Body Acceptance—Nude Recreation" and "Go Barefoot Everywhere". Do I have to?

Great Barrington, Massachusetts: "I believe in the Separation of Church and Hate".

On many cars: "Kerry—Edwards 04". Is it too much trouble to peel it off or are some of us still wishing for a rematch after two, at best, fuzzy elections?

I attended a play last year at the Rudolf Steiner School. Riding in a Subaru, I was overwhelmed by the many other Subarus in the school parking lot adorned with bumper stickers. Assuming they were earth, animal, and yes, human friendly, I thought it was a good omen for the evening, despite my sense that having a bumper sticker on one's car is akin to arguing with your relations in public: an intensely private matter impulsively thrust onto an ill-at-ease public. It satisfies the person who puts it there, but flatly denies a genuine dialogue.

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