![]() ![]() "Whenever we feel shame, it’s a mark of some deep investment or deep internal struggle. Leslie Jamison, author of The Empathy Exams, elegantly summed up my decades-long tug of war with how Mountain Dew relates to my identity in a recent interview. It is, however, a drink that-for better or worse-ties me to my home. I would probably get fewer dirty looks if I snorted a couple of lines of cocaine every day. It’s not even, really, an acceptable guilty pleasure. It is "not good" in a decidedly unsexy way, the way other corporate Frankenstein creations like Ho-Hos and Combos are easily tossed into the furnace of public scorn. It is wickedly acidic and (if you’re drinking the less aspartame-influenced variety) highly caloric. Nothing great will ever come from consuming yellow dye #5. My consumption of Diet Mountain Dew ensures that I’m served a double shot of shame-complete with Backwoods Barbie stereotype-on a fairly regular basis.Īt this point, I should probably make this clear: I’m no Mountain Dew apologist. Would people feel like they could tease if I didn’t have a fleck of twang in my voice, if I didn’t slide deeper into my mountain accent after a couple of drinks? That’s definitely a no. Would people feel as open to chiding me or ribbing me about the drink if I were a man? Probably not. ![]() For a time, I thought I could head the scolding off at the pass by making fun of myself first or displaying some arcane knowledge. If there’s a pop culture reference about DMD you need to know-including that bopping Lana Del Ray jam and its brief mention in a recent Paul Muldoon poem-I’m your girl. In the eyes of so many people, there’s no room at the table for consumption of the irony-free profane.Īs a defense mechanism, I’ve become a trivia expert on the most esoteric facts available about Mountain Dew so I can titter them off as a nervous shield. I’ve worried that I won’t get work, that I will be perceived as less intelligent and qualified because I occasionally enjoy a soda that’s lambasted as the scourge of the soft drink earth. I’m someone who people think should-in so many words-know better. This level of judgement has only heightened from year to year as I’ve settled into a career as a food writer. I’ve never once had someone without deep mountains connections place a hand on my shoulder and say, "Me too, sister." Even today when I discuss drinking it in public, people look at me incredulously as if waiting for a punchline. When I moved away from home, it became very clear that I should be ashamed of drinking Diet Mountain Dew (my parents and I still lovingly abbreviate it as "DMD" in text messages). It was not a novelty, not an ironic goof-just simply a way of life. My teachers drank it, my doctor drank it and prisoners would drink it while picking up the littered roadside bottles. ![]() Growing up in Eastern Kentucky, Mountain Dew (and its diet counterpart, my beverage of choice) was an omnipresent force, its signature emerald-tinged, translucent 20-ounce bottles filling up coolers at backyard barbecues and littering the weed-lined backroads. was not a novelty, not an ironic goof-just simply a way of life. Growing up in Eastern Kentucky, Mountain Dew. Even if you might not crack open a bottle in your lifetime, I encourage you to take a moment and imagine a highly carbonated, nose-tickling bubble and a tart-sweet, citrusy flavor that’s similar to a church picnic punch on steroids. It also became clear fairly quickly that a lot of my shame coalesced around one thing: my relationship with Diet Mountain Dew.įor those who have never had the pleasure of sipping an ice cold can of Mountain Dew, you’ve probably only heard talk of its vices, of which there are (admittedly) many. ![]() Over a series of months, a perfect storm of books, lectures and wee-small-hours conversations revealed to me-like peeling back the layers of an onion (weepy eyes and all)-that the feeling I had called so many other things (embarrassment, pigheadedness, discomfort, willfulness) was shame at its core. Exploring it was simultaneously deeply cathartic and like sticking my hand in an emotional meat grinder. How did Appalachia become stereotyped by a popular beverage?Ī little over a year ago, I became obsessed with the concept of shame.įor me, beginning to think about (and talk about) shame as an emotion was like searching for a word that’s been on the tip of your tongue for ages and then comes to you like a thunderbolt in the middle of washing dishes or when you’re nodding off to an X-Files rerun. ![]()
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