New England

The thing about New England is the winters. I say this as a native of Connecticut, which is southern New England and so has slightly less claim on the terrible blizzards of Vermont, New Hampshire, or Maine. But even Connecticut gets enough snow and ice to be thought of as difficult wintering.

The other thing about New England is the Puritans. The South may have Walker Percy and Flannery O’Connor, who write languidly about the failures of man (and woman) as a fact of life, and William Faulkner, who did the same, never bothering to stop and punctuate. New England’s quintessential texts are Ethan Frome and The Scarlet Letter. Lack of punishment is the equivalent of godlessness. It cannot be endured.

I suspect that the peculiar character of native New Englanders—known as hard workers, but sarcastic and cold—comes from the combination of these. Harsh winters drove Puritans indoors and left them with not much else to contemplate but an equally harsh and punishing divine will. It made them neurotic and resulted in a kind of collective post-traumatic stress that many of us have yet to escape.

Being a New Englander is like being a lapsed Catholic; you may fight against it your whole life, but it will always be that that you’re fighting against.