Column: Making it in Missoula

Small-Town Anonymity: Can It Exist?

By Little Sis, 10-03-06

Some of you may be wondering, where is Big Sis and her more intelligent, funnier writing? Well, she had things to do, so I took over. Don't worry, she'll be writing next week. Plus, I've got some things to get off my chest.

The challenge to writing an anonymous column about small-town adventures: everyone eventually sees through your pen name.

This weekend, I discovered my cover had been blown. Several times.

I was having an ideal weekend. I strolled through the Farmers’ Market on Saturday morning, enjoying some me-time and stopping to chat with friends on my way to the Harvest Fest. As I was unlocking my bike—illegally locked to the parking meter, since there were more bikes parked than cars—the Cuz burst out of the Break where he was diligently writing papers up until that point. “Hey, who’s Paddler Dude A and who’s Paddler Dude B? I bet I know.” Dammit.

As I sat down next to a girlfriend at the Angler to hear David James Duncan read, she asked me to send her a link to the week’s column because she couldn’t find it. Of course the room was full of people I knew, and she doesn’t speak softly. Thank goodness I’m invisible in comparison to the state’s hero-writer. Anyone who was listening forgot as Duncan began speaking. Californians have Hollywood stars. Montanans have David James Duncan, and are rightfully a hell of a lot prouder of it.

At a potluck that night, I’d just arrived and was in that awkward process of juggling my wine glass and loading my plate (while trying not to appear like I was being greedy in comparison to the wimpy salad I had brought; I couldn’t find a bigger bowl to put it in). My friend, a very well-respected journalist in town, cornered me in my vulnerable state. “So, you’re a columnist now, huh?” My intelligent, throw-him-off-track response: “How does everyone know?!” As I complained, he pragmatically pointed out, “Well, you could start denying it.”

The problem here is that I’m an awful liar. I try to get this blank look on my face to preserve my anonymity as Little Sis, but I think I just come off as guilty.

This is the best part. Late night at the Rhino, I heard someone yelling, “Little Sis!” I refused to turn around, but alarm bells went off because I didn’t recognize the voice at all. The drunken yelling persisted, so I finally turned on the sneaky pretext of looking for someone. Of course this didn’t work, because I can’t control my expressions at all. A guy I’d never seen before in my life looked me straight in the eye and squawked triumphantly, “New West’s Little Sis!”

I had no idea who this guy was, and didn’t recognize anyone he was with. I think I gave myself up when I dumbly asked, “Who the hell are you?” I was disturbed, so didn’t take my friend’s advice on denial from earlier that evening. Even in a small town, how would someone I didn’t even know recognize me as the anonymous pen name? The kid just grinned and disappeared into the Saturday night crowd.

I discussed it the next morning over Old Post brunch with my housemate, but as a friend approached, she abruptly cut off the conversation, saying he didn’t know I wrote the column. He scoffed and revealed he’d figured it out after the second posting.

Okay.

Many of you may be wondering, so what? Who cares if your readers know who you are in the real world?

The answer is this: my friends are even now reading this and looking for themselves, thinly-veiled by changed names and sardonic phrasing. My anonymity ensured theirs, but the very small-town connections about which I write have blown all of our covers. I know some people look for themselves proudly, and hope that they’ll make it in this week or next week. Some friends think of it as a game, like the Cuz, trying to figure out who’s who. But many people would rather find their situation mirrored by a faceless character than be the actual face. So those of you who know these sisters personally, let’s keep a few secrets, huh?

Writers write their lives. In writing non-fiction, we chose anonymity to keep from invading anyone else’s life. This was probably naive, because gossip spreads fast in a small town where your housemate’s boyfriend lives with your co-worker.

So here’s the question of the week, then. How do I write an “anonymous” column when some readers know who I am (even if I have no idea who they are, but they can pick me out of a crowd in a downtown bar)? My subjects are limited at that point. Maybe the answer is that those of you who still don’t know who I am—apparently this is a smaller pool than I thought—should send me some situations of your own you’d like to see written. My email is littlesis@newwest.net. Bring ‘em on.

Quote of the week:
(I hate USC, and I watch the games only to see them lose horribly at some point and take satisfaction from it. I know hate is a strong word, but every time I see that damn Trojan I get angry. College sports are pretty volatile.)
Me: “The SC defensive line is huge.”
Friend: “Yeah, they feed ‘em minorities there.”

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