I've grappled with growing up in Montana my whole life.
I loathed the claustrophobic tinge of masculinity everywhere, in the past, present, and future. The lack of coherent paths to places that weren't a few towns away. The never-ending winters and the way life in those six months revolves around drinking and hoping the car will start. It's taken me years to find my niche here, and it is on the edges, observing the kitsch and the neon. I have slowly found a playfulness in the performative, nostalgia-laden county fairs, the crusty masculinity that dominates bars but is easily penetrated, the quiet rhythm of existence in places slow to change. This is my American West, tinged with chiaroscuro and my own interpretation of old tropes through a feminine, often unnoticed eye.