Editor's Note: California has its fair share of pretty crappy places (hi, Modesto!), but like Old Man Marley in Home Alone, sometimes they aren't actually as bad as they look/didn't murder their entire family. Today, we're giving an actual native a shot at defending one of the crappiest: Fresno.
Just like the kid in Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue,” I grew up a little tougher thanks to the constant taunting I’ve endured, being from Fresno. Telling people where I’m from always feels more like a confession than a casual sharing of personal history. After saying “Fresno,” everything changes. Eyebrows are raised. Laughs ensue. Pity follows. Okay, so some of that pity is warranted -- maybe our deputy police chief was arrested on drug charges. And maybe Men’s Health ranked us as America’s Drunkest City. And sure, after living in the 559 for more than 16 years, you're going to see a lot of legit teardrop tattoos and you'll hear a thing or two (or three... or fifty) about meth-making.