Melody has just begun Intro to Rhetoric and is succeeding with her quick analyses of various state essays. Having read the preface by Matt Weiland, she understands the purpose of the book, and we can see here that she is responding to the standard set out by Weiland with brief reviews.

Bechdel arranges her essay in a way that very much aligns with my expectations for State by State—mixing cultural and historical anecdotes about the state with the authors’ experience in a personal narrative. She opens with a bold anecdote about impulsively moving to Vermont to be with her girlfriend after only three months, only to later come to the realization that she had fallen in love with “the state, and not the person.” This initial rash decision contrasts with her slower, more introspective analysis of what exactly it is that she loves about Vermont. She speculates on several possibilities: the fact that “there’s always somewhere to go,” the insignificance she feels when standing on a summit, or even a genetic connection, as she recalls her grandfather herding goats in the Austrian Alps. 

Bechdel’s essay matches the goal that Weiland and Wilsey set for State by State: using personal moments to immerse the reader while tying them to broader cultural and historical contexts. Her seemingly unrelated reflections—such as her grandfather taking her to see The Sound of Music, which then leads her to describe Vermont as “absen[t] of Nazis, presen[t] of hills”—are all linked by a common idea: Vermont’s identity as a place of contradiction and independence. She critiques the state’s political landscape in a satirical tone, acknowledging the presence of right-wing Vermonters who discriminate against people like her, while also pointing out the left-wing “freak show” she belongs to, a category that includes “homosexuals, land conservationists, egalitarian school funding, [our] socialist congressman, and Ben & Jerry’s.” This humorous yet biting critique reinforces Vermont’s oxymoronic nature—both fiercely conservative and radically progressive.

Bechdel also dives into Vermont’s historical significance, emphasizing its role as the first state to abolish slavery and the impact of Ethan Allen, “Vermont’s founding hero,” who is claimed by both liberals and conservatives. On page 465, she satirically critiques Vermont’s obsession with independence through snarky references to the “independent bookstore,” the “independent hardware store,” and the “independent stationery store,” emphasizing the state’s deeply ingrained self-perception as a sovereign nation—something rooted in its history as an independent republic for fourteen years. She extends this commentary on page 466 with an observation about the “non-chain theatre” audience, describing them as “graying, erudite back-to-the-landers,” further illustrating Vermont’s distinct cultural character. 

            In terms of impact, Bechdel’s essay exceeded my expectations. The preface and introduction to State by State suggested that each essay would serve as a personally yet insightful view of a state, and Bechdel achieves this with humor, irony, and clear analysis. While I anticipated a blend of memoir and state commentary, I didn’t expect her approach to be so fluid and conversational—almost like following the natural progression of her thoughts rather than reading a structured essay. Comparing Vermont to Oregon, I felt that Oregon was way different from my expectations, a lot of jumping back and forth in time and pessimistic attitude which covered up more about the historical impacts of the state (I thought he might talk about the Oregon Trail, but I guess not).

Alaska

            Greenberg arranges his essay, Alaska, by capturing the state through a personal, yet fragmented reflection on their identity and isolation. Rather than offering a usual travelogue or historical overview, like Vermont, he arranges Alaska in short vignettes and anecdotes, mirroring the unpredictability of the Alaskan landscape, and maybe his own fragmented connection to it as well. 

            On page 21, Greenberg really delivers a sense of tension between wilderness and the self. “We stayed in a friend’s cabin, no plumbing, wood stove, outhouse…” where he compares the domestic routines with the rawness of nature, while quietly hinting at a deeper internal desolation. Each memory feels like a quiet confession, bringing the reader’s attention to how Alaska’s not just “USA’s own third world country” but really a space where people are stripped to their barest selves. Greenberg’s essay succeeds in the goal that Weiland and Wilsey set for State by State: using the tiny anecdotes to break down stereotypes and deliver a more intimate portrayal of Alaska. Rather than reinforcing the “final frontier” image of Alaska, Greenberg complicates it. He acknowledges the grandeur of the state but centers the essay on human vulnerability instead. What I was not expecting was his subtle, sparse storytelling, rather than something more scenic or bold in tone. Obviously, in a state like Alaska, it looks a lot different than the heart of New York City, so effective imagery is extremely helpful in terms of context for its landscape and culture. His sparse and disjointed storytelling makes the reader a little lost, often wondering where and when he has moved onto, and how it’s connected to the story he’s sharing.