The Wyoming Legislature is
coming close to declaring the jackalope the state’s official
mythical creature. A ferocious jackrabbit with horns, the jackalope
was first portrayed by taxidermist Douglas Herrick in 1939, and now
adorns gift shops and tacky postcards all over the state.
An eight-foot jackalope statue greets entrants to the Wyoming State
Fair, and Wyomingites love to tell stories of tourists who think
the animals actually exist.
A proclamation, already
passed by the House 45-12 and headed for the Senate, would make it
official. Wyoming would be the first state to have an official
mythical anything — just the sort of frivolous exercise I can
see legislators around the West getting behind.
For
example, any number of states could name an official mythical hero,
the cowboy. But in an age where most cattle tenders use pickup
trucks and four-wheelers, we could also name an official mythical
mode of transportation, the horse.
Here in Montana, some
economists are always trying to point out that our economy no
longer depends on logging and mining, and so we should stop giving
those industries such huge handouts. But if we declared them
Montana’s official mythical economy, we could demonstrate the
irrelevance of the economists’ arguments.
Arizona could
find an official mythical irrigation source. Colorado could issue
paeans to the official mythical native Coloradan. Idaho could
declare the Democrats their official mythical political party. In
South Dakota, Sturgis could name the biker both its official
mythical villain and its official mythical savior.
As
drought continues, numerous states could identify official mythical
streams and lakes. They would be filled with official mythical
fish, which would be caught by people engaged in an official
mythical pastime and discussed with an official mythical attitude
toward the truth.
As global warming — er, “climate
change”— continues, we could have an official mythical season
(winter), featuring an official mythical form of precipitation
(snow) and an official mythical rationalization (“but at least it’s
not a humid cold”).
And once we identified the ranch as
our official mythical home, we could feel free to move to the city
where the salaries are so much better. Once we identified rugged
independence and libertarianism as our official mythical
philosophies, we could beg for huge government subsidies without
hypocrisy.
Needless to say, I’ve always been skeptical of
such “official” declarations. I can never remember whether the
ponderosa or the cottonwood is Montana’s official tree — and
furthermore, I’m quite sure it’s not going to affect my life. A
plethora of more complex legislators’ tasks, such as setting
budgets and taxes, have far more impact.
Furthermore,
isn’t officialness the exact opposite of myth? By their very
definition, myths are stories told informally because their
explanatory power goes beyond literal truth. Indeed, the jackalope
had been around for years as a campfire story before Douglas
Herrick made it “real.” How could a campfire story be improved by
the government pretending we believe it?
On the other
hand, as I cast about for these smart-alecky examples of myths to
officialize, I realized I’d missed the purpose of not only official
myths, but official anythings. They draw us together. They
emphasize the commonality of experience within a state. Whether
it’s a ponderosa or cottonwood (I just looked it up: it’s the
ponderosa), the state tree reminds me of something special about
Montana, what it means to be a Montanan. Not very important, maybe,
but neither are pennies until you collect enough of them.
Though I grew up in Massachusetts, home to great symbolic stories
about Pilgrims and the Revolutionary War, I never felt close to
those myths, the way I feel close to stuff out west. You can go
almost anywhere in Plymouth, Mass., without thinking about Plymouth
Rock. But if you drive across Wyoming, you might think about
jackalopes.
The West is full of such symbols, from cowboy
gear to backpacker gear, hardpanners to gold panners, wild animals
to imaginary animals. I think it’s because nature is still so
powerful here, with mountains and deserts always surrounding us,
such that the stories explaining our place in it all carry much
more weight. And maybe, in the end, that’s not such a frivolous
issue for a Legislature to discuss.
John
Clayton is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of
High Country News (hcn.org). He lives in Red
Lodge, Montana, where he is completing a biography of the
journalist, novelist and rancher, Caroline
Lockhart.
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