Ask someone about Tacoma, Washington, and they might draw a blank. And it’d be hard to blame them for doing so. Tacoma is not a large city, nor is it heavily populated. In many eyes, it’s not even that important. It’s a lumber town, much like Seattle in its early days. Tacoma, however, was supposed to be the city in Washington State. However, when the rallying cry of “Yukon gold!” came down from Alaska, it was Seattle that became the hopeful hub, and Tacoma was lost to the limelight of history.
At one point, I considered it my home.
Tacoma might be recognized by fans of the films 10 Things I Hate About You or Volunteers. The high school in the former is Stadium High, which my father attended, while John Candy’s character in the latter mentions that he’s from Tacoma at any opportunity. If you’ve been there, you’ll definitely recognize Tacoma from its smell, known locally as “the Aroma.” Every time I drive down I-5, rounding the corner where the signs proclaim loudly and with false optimism, “Welcome to Tacoma!” I can smell it. It is home now, primarily, to commuters and those who eke out a living based on its proximity to the military-industrial center of the Pacific Northwest. Tacoma housed two serial killers (Ted Bundy and the Beltway Sniper, John Muhammed), one abusive father (Bing Crosby), and one monocular glass artist (Dale Chihuly). It is also the professed hometown of one gorgeous alt-country siren: Neko Case.
Her paean to Tacoma, “Thrice All American,” begins with a description of the city: a “dusty old jewel in the South Puget Sound,” a “sour and used up old place.” These observations are, to say the very least, accurate. It is now a dreary shell of a city, living in the shadow of its more prominent neighbor to the north. While Seattle brought forth Microsoft, Starbucks, and Boeing, as well as musical efforts from Jimi Hendrix to Sir Mix-a-Lot, Tacoma has engendered significantly less. The Tacoma Dome, its major concert venue, mainly hosts monster truck rallies and Christian revivals.
Case goes on with a sad and lonely truth: “There was hope in the train yard of something inspired.” The transcontinental railroad connected with Tacoma, not Seattle. Barring the Yukon Gold Rush, Tacoma was supposed to be the railroad hub of the area, akin to Chicago, but with a major Pacific port, making it more like San Francisco. Both of these cities grew to be dynamic and influential while Tacoma stagnated. The trains, motionless and rusting, were the last best hope that Tacoma had. It once was the “City of Destiny,” a place where the mountains and forest met the sea, a sacred place to the Puyallup tribe and a geographically advantageous area for national and global shipping lanes. Now, Case’s observation that “Buildings are empty like ghettos or ghost-towns,” is hauntingly real; industrial centers exist almost solely to provide cover for drug deals and gang violence.
It is difficult to juxtapose the now-polished beauty and grace of Neko Case with the hollow dream of a city that never truly was. But, like Tacoma, Neko Case was once full of fiery passion and raw potential. Her own voice is a testament to that blaze, a sultry sound capable of conveying both crippling heartbreak and caustic venom. While Tacoma may have stagnated, Case utilized her potential. She made it out from under the crushing history of failure and of mere survival that Tacoma has come to signify. Only 20% of Tacoma residents graduate from college, compared with 25% nationally. Seattle’s rate is 36%. Most of Tacoma’s high school graduates either move or join the military. Fort Lewis, McChord Air Force Base, or the naval base in Bremerton are not far off, and provide easy ways out. Case herself moved to Vancouver, B.C., where stardom and the New Pornographers would not be too long off.
My parents made the inevitable drive forty miles north to Seattle, where they would settle and raise their own family. While I still make the occasional drive south to visit grandparents, uncles, and cousins who have not made it out, Tacoma, like Neko Case, I also sadly neglect you. So, whether or not you have been to Tacoma, whether or not you even care about Tacoma’s past or future, when you listen to “Thrice All American,” remember that you are listening to more than just a song about some second-rate city. You are listening to an elegy, a bittersweet ode to my (and Neko’s) home.
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