Why Doesn’t Connecticut Ever Really Feel Like Part of New England?

Welcome to “The Salty Cod,” a new monthly column in which humorist Steve Calechman grapples with uniquely New England dilemmas. 

Dear Salty Cod: Why doesn’t Connecticut ever really feel like part of New England?

First off, it’s not like any of us are super tight to begin with. We’re a collection of states that tend to be crabby, independent, and suspect. None of us wants to belong together.

From a geographic perspective, though, Connecticut got hosed. Being at the bottom of the region, it’s easy to feel like an outsider—nothing more than an outpost for New York.

That might be a cheap shot (still true), but the distance doesn’t help Connecticut’s cause. I can leave Boston and, in less than an hour, feel like I’ve traveled to another state because, well, I’ve traveled to another state. One exception. Guess where? More than that, I want to travel because my neighbors have something I need and need real bad. Vermont? Skiing and syrup. Maine? Lobster rolls, then outlet stores. New Hampshire? Fireworks and tax-free washing machines. Rhode Island? Hearing an even worse accent.

Connecticut? Nope. You give no reason to come and get to know you. The best offering is the Merritt Parkway, a stellar road with amazingly quick on-and-off plazas. But it’s still a highway whose sole purpose is to make it easier to travel through the state and provide a 37-mile respite from, regardless of day, time, and month, the at-minimum two-hour backup on 84.

Oh, yeah, the famous pizza, the Greater New Haven Chamber of Commerce will bellow. I’ve been on Wooster Street at Frank Pepe’s and Sally’s. They’re both really good, but are they wait-three-hours really good? Not even close, and after 90 minutes in line, we’re left with two choices: A) Stay and feel like a fool, or B) Leave with nothing and feel like a bigger one. And all for pizza, whose greatness is made greater because it’s fast. Not in Connecticut. Strike, I guess, five.

But the biggest problem is that Connecticut doesn’t even attempt to belong. Its people root for the Yankees, Giants, and Jets, which is always a super-awesome icebreaker around here. It also gets claimed as part of the tri-state area and doesn’t seem to mind. (See: sports apparel.)

Whenever the legendary middleweight boxer Marvin Hagler got introduced as being from Boston, he’d quickly make a correction: “I’m from Brockton.” From Connecticut, we get nothing. No, “Thanks, but no thanks.” No, “Hey, spoken for.” No, “My God, give it up already.” You think Rhode Island would stay silent? They’d scream, “Keep walkin’. We’re New England forevah.” Sure, no one would understand them, but the love would come through.

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.