Someone stole my name. I would very much like it back.

Brad Zeller, in an article in The City Pages, takes an in-depth look at life in the tiny trailer-park city of Hilltop (population 766) located in the midst of the Twin Cities. I had no idea it existed. You don’t see trailer-parks in the Twin Cities area. This article is especially interesting to me because (fine, I’ll admit it) I lived in a trailer-park with some friends for the span of two months in the small college town of Carbondale, Illinois, about two years ago. However, a considerable amount of the students in Carbondale reside in trailer-homes (cheap, short leases) so it wasn’t that big of a deal. Trailer life was definately interesting and spontaneous, however, and was all the more shocking because I had just upped and moved away from the safety of my parents’ home in Minneapolis with nothing but $400 and a recently purchased used-Honda to my name. We had some of the most peculiar neighbours and one of the most shady slumlords ever, barring all but Mike Waddiak/Waddiac/No one is sure how to spell his last name, as he is smart enough to never use it, or write it when signing leases. The landlord, whose surname escapes me, was intent on towing our cars away for kicks, and so we’d have to circle the wagons (er, cars) so they were protected from the onslaught of towtrucks that every night would bring. I remember the neighbours who lived across from us — this redneck couple who seemed to be adverse to closing their shades, and often ended the night in screaming matches and pint-shattering. I’d often sit out on the front steps that cruel and windy April and observe them to make sure nothing got too far out of hand. At the end of spring semester they piled everything onto the back of this huge rusty, red truck and lumbered off into a cloud of dust (dust that would one day get the best of them, I fear). I’m sure the police eventually pulled them over and issued them a road hazard citation. On the other side of us lived some drug dealers. We debated turning them in for a reward, but concluded it was a bad idea. Every once in awhile we’d hear gun shots go off, but were never sure where they came from and opted to ignore it and hope for the best. It was also odd how many pristine automobiles were parked in front of the shabby trailers, many trailer-park residents prefer to own a nice car rather than a house. I was rather happy to move into an apartment at the end of those two chaotic and somewhat dangerous months, but I must say, life at the trailer was much more interesting. The experience of the poverty stricken and down-and-out tralier-park life certainly illuminates the songs of Beck, Waits, Cohen, Cash, Hank Williams Sr., Dylan, Will Oldham, etc. Ironically, we tended to pay the electric bills with money made from record reviews in those days.

What follows is the once-upon-a-time story of a group of trailer park residents who were spurned and kicked around until one day they got fed up and created a humble little city they could call their own, complete with a magnificent 24-hour Flameburger restaurant. This all happened a long time ago, but before we proceed with this largely neglected chapter of local history, I’d like to ask each and every one of you to look into your heart of darkness and unburden yourself of the more uncharitable notions you harbor there. I ask you to pause for just one moment — it won’t take long — and think about some of the things the phrase “trailer park” inevitably conjures in your mind. ‘Fess up, you hateful wretches: Trailer trash. Tin gypsies. Human Humane Society. Blatz Babylon. Hee-Haw Heaven. Redneck Reservation. Arkansas Timeshares. Methamphetamine Inc. NASCAR Fantasy Camp. George Jonestown. Disgraceland. Hillbilly Hilton. Unplanned Parenthood.

….

One night in late December, a damp fog settled on the town, and the trailers were lit up in the fog like Halloween pumpkins or Chinese lanterns. Walking the disconcertingly dark streets, you’d have had the feeling of walking among houseboats docked along a quiet river. Light snow was falling through the lamps along the narrow lanes, and the modest displays of holiday lights up and down the rows looked poignant and forlorn. But then, Hilltop is full of poignant and telling details: American flags, decorated mailboxes, handmade signs routed with the names of the homesteaders, children’s playthings strewn about, small garden plots presided over by lawn statuary of trolls, miniature deer, the Virgin Mary. Through windows I saw the familiar blue glow of televisions looming in living rooms, a little girl doing jumping jacks, and a group of people gathered around a kitchen table, playing cards. Granted, it was a cold evening, but I did not encounter a single keg party or front-stoop banjo picker or roving pack of insolent peckerwoods, no feral strays or cockfights or randy housewives. I didn’t even see many pickup trucks. I guess it was a quiet night in Hilltop. Or maybe those colorful and entertaining things you think you know about trailer parks are based almost purely on some of our broadest and most stubborn cultural stereotypes.

New York City; Coming to a Pub Near You.