I live in a place that most would describe as a hellhole. It's triple-digits hot in the summer, butt-ass freezing in the winter, and there is next to nothing to do there. I happen to be proud to call it home, but it has certainly earned its reputation as the armpit of California.
Yes, Fresno is a great place to live for me and my family, but it's not exactly bursting with anything near high-brow culture in the grand scheme of things. I don't particularly think that standard means anything, but it's true nonetheless. That's why I continue to be baffled by one particular area of Fresno which has repulsed me for well over a decade.
Fig Garden is a section of town on the coveted northwest side of Fresno that purportedly has the district's best schools (e.g., the illustrious Bullard High, which carries the FUSD mantle despite perennially losing to the oh-so-underfunded Edison) as well as some of its finest residences. It also boasts a shopping center known as Fig Garden Village, which is home to such bourgie establishments as J. Crew, Talbots, and Coldwater Creek. It's not that the mere existence of these stores offends me; it doesn't, as I've lived in both Santa Barbara and Santa Monica without feeling the same sense of umbrage. Rather, it's the misplaced sense of superiority that emanates from this cesspool that elicits my hatred, and I've felt it as long as I can remember.
When we moved to Fresno, we were not rich. Far from it, in fact, as my mom had just finished medical school and my dad's teacher salary was supporting our family of five. My mom's transition to practicing physician was thus an adjustment to our socioeconomic standing, and it put the Fig Garden set both within and without our sphere. Sure, we had the money to hang with these people now, but did we really want to? We still drove some beat-up used cars and always joked that you knew you were in Fig Garden when you went down the row in the parking lot saying, "Lexus, Benz, Beamer, Benz, Jag." On our side of town - Sunnyside, a nice area looked down upon for being too close to Fresno's undesirables - the profile was much different: "Ford, Chevy, Pick-A-Part combo..."
Now, almost fifteen years later, we are easily within the Fig Garden tax bracket, perhaps above it given the current economic market, but it still reeks of ick. I went there today for the first time in close to ten years, and I was quickly reminded of why I had avoided it for so long. I had been craving Chipotle and the nearest one was in the dreaded Village, so my sister, daughter, and I drove on down and got our grub on. Afterward, we decided to check out a few shops and enjoy the afternoon. Our first stop was the Fig Garden Bookstore to browse for a while with the kiddo. The elderly white woman who failed to greet us on our way in nosily overlooked our walk to the kids' section, sneered as my sister read a display book to my 2 year old, and then told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to sit and read to my daughter on the floor. I could think of no other response than, "Yes, ma'am," and began to gather my things. She then apparently felt the need to explain herself, waxing eloquent on the dire situation of the disabled older folk who had a history of tripping over seated guests in the store, which was a good point since I never move out of the way for the handicapped. Just like I don't brake for infants. We kept it civil and smiled brightly, then ignored her as she attempted to talk to my daughter on our way out of the store. There was nothing left to say except, "Goodbye."
After fuming for a few minutes, we stopped at Hungry Bear Cookies to get ourselves a little treat, which was all well and good. We bought our cookies, chatted with the cashier, and made our way toward the door. At that moment, a very chic middle-aged mother with about six kids in tow - all wearing their adorable little private school uniforms - arrived at the store. With our hands full and a toddler in my arms, we politely waited for her and her troop to get inside before squeezing out ourselves, but only after she refused to hold the door for us and got all huffy that we didn't hold it for her.
My question is this: What is it about these Fig Garden people that makes them so sure of their superiority to everyone else? Seriously, you live in fucking Fresno, the raisin capital of the world. Your house is probably worth less than your Hummer, your social life is as limited as Barney Fife's, and your designer clothes scream your big-fish-in-a-small-pond mentality. You think because you wear thirteen bracelets at a time that that makes you better than me? You think eating at Pangea and the Elbow Room puts you a league above the lowly Applebees dwellers who occasionally cross your path? News flash: you still live in Fresno, and, if current trends are any indication, you're probably not going anywhere better for a long time.
I occasionally ventured into Beverly Hills when I lived in LA, and, while that definitely wasn't my scene, I didn't experience the same kind of snoot-level as I do in Fig Garden. My guess is that it's because people in Beverly Hills are completely secure in their position at the top of the ladder: we're here, we're richer than you, now let's move on. Fresnans, on the other hand, have a lot to compensate for, and they do so by living in Fig Garden.
So is that the answer to the mystery? Is it really just a matter of these very tiny people's very large insecurities? Maybe. Or maybe they're just projecting outward their own mistreatment at the hands of Clovis residents. And oh God, don't get me started on Clovis.
