BUCKING THE SYSTEM: BIG-FOOT COUNTRY GIRL CALLS CAPE GIRARDEAU HOME

Being a big-foot homegirl -- even in someone else's town -- is familiar territory.

I am not a native of Cape Girardeau, nor do I claim to be. As a matter of fact, I didn't even claim Cape Girardeau as my permanent residence until last summer. That's when Patrick, my husband, made me face the fact that we live here, and that's it.

But what's funny is that people treat me like a homegirl; as if I'm a homegrown product of Cape Girardeau, when the truth is I am a bigfoot country girl from that one-stoplight having town called Charleston. (Actually, Charleston became bigtime when it got its second stoplight in 1996).

Now, it's not that I don't appreciate Cape Girardeau, because I do. When I was a teenager, this city was just where I wanted to be. Sure, in Charleston you could buy a liter of wine coolers AND enough gas for the weekend with $1.50, but there just wasn't anywhere to go. Cape Girardeau, on the other hand, had a mall, movie theaters and a lot of college parties I wasn't supposed to be attending.

Perfect.

But you know what they say about the grass being greener and all that jazz. All it took was for me to move to Cape, and I was longing for a midnight breakfast rendezvous at Reeve's Boomland.

In Charleston, I was Tamara, the teacher's kid. The girl who made good grades and went to church every Sunday, but who also liked to dance and sing the blues. Just about everybody in town knew me, even if they didn't all love me.

In Cape Girardeau, few people recognize those credentials, but I'm finding many people know of me just the same. To quote an elderly woman who hugged me recently when I told her my name, "You're that black girl who works for the paper."

She took me by surprise when she called me that, although I knew it wasn't meant to be offensive. I mean, really, her complexion was actually darker than mine, and according to several pantyhose and makeup manufacturers, I can be categorized as sable, coffee bean or chestnut bronze.

What caught my attention was the look of pride on that woman's face. The light in her eyes probably resembled every American's whenever we won gold during the 1996 Summer Olympics, or, more culturally, every African American's when we watched the formerly ostracized Muhammed Ali light the Olympic torch during those same summer games.

By being the only black newspaper reporter in the area, I represent "us" to that lady, and that makes her proud. A number of African Americans in Cape Girardeau have told me they read and like my stories, and they tell me they are proud of me almost as often as my family does.

What's funny is the people in Charleston feel the same way, but for a different reason. To them, my race isn't the issue, but my origin is. I'm a homegirl writing for the big city paper, and they can read it and know a Charlestonian is reporting some aspect of the news.

It's a big responsibility having all of these people recognize you and what you are doing. People keep telling me how much they enjoy seeing my name in the paper. Sometimes they even have a compliment about what I write.

I'm beginning to wonder if being a homegirl is going to mean being a role model, as well. If it does, I don't want my career to be the only highlight of my life in Cape. I am proud of my cultural and ethnic heritage, and I love what I'm doing, but I need something more.

I've started preparing for that "something more" by becoming a board member for the Cape Girardeau Civic Center. I've heard about its history, and I think I can help get it back to what it once was. I believed in the saying "each one reach one" when I lived in Charleston, and I believe in it today.

Hello, everybody. Welcome to the 'hood.

Tamrara Zellars Buck is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.