Volstead Homestead Volstead Instead Ousted
Or: The Day I Confidently Argued About Something I Didn't Understand While Holding Cured Meats
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I need to tell you about the day I lost an argument.
Not just lost.
Devastatingly, publicly, humiliatingly lost.
An argument I started.
An argument I was confident—certain—I would win.
An argument about American history.
About legislation.
About the Homestead Act.
Except it wasn't about the Homestead Act.
It was about the Volstead Act.
And I—
standing in a FedEx—
holding a box of cured meats—
did not know the difference.
THE SETUP
It was a Tuesday.
2:30 PM.
I was at FedEx.
Mailing a package to my brother Darrell.
Darrell lives in Montana.
On what he calls a "homestead."
What I call "a house with a large yard."
But he's committed to the bit.
Raises chickens.
Has a garden.
Talks about "living off the land" while ordering half his supplies from Amazon.
But I love him.
And he'd asked me to send him some specialty cured meats.
Salami. Prosciutto. Pepperoni.
The kind you can't get in rural Montana.
Or can, but won't, because he's "avoiding corporate grocery stores."
So I went to a specialty market.
Bought $87 worth of cured meats.
Packed them carefully in a box with ice packs.
And took them to FedEx.
To ship them to my homesteading brother.
My homesteading brother.
This detail is important.
THE LINE
The FedEx was busy.
Always is.
Everyone mailing packages.
Returns, probably.
(I felt a pang of guilt.)
I waited in line.
Box of meats in hand.
And in front of me—
two people.
Having a conversation.
A loud conversation.
About history.
About legislation.
About—
and I perked up—
The Homestead Act.
THE CONVERSATION
Man #1, wearing a "Don't Tread on Me" shirt: "The Homestead Act was the greatest piece of legislation this country ever passed. Gave people land. Gave them opportunity. That's what made America great."
Man #2, wearing glasses and an air of intellectual superiority: "Greatest? It displaced indigenous populations and led to environmental devastation."
Man #1: "It gave people FREEDOM. The freedom to own land. To build something."
Man #2: "It gave white settlers stolen land."
Man #1: "Here we go with the—"
And then I—
I—
holding my box of meats—
waiting to mail them to my homesteading brother—
having recently listened to a podcast about Prohibition—
chimed in.
"Actually," I said.
"Actually."
The worst way to start any sentence.
Both men turned.
"The Volstead Act—I mean, the Homestead Act—was repealed because it was causing too many problems."
Man #1 blinked. "What?"
"Yeah," I continued, confidence growing. "It was supposed to help people, but it ended up creating all this illegal activity. So they repealed it. In, like, the '30s."
Man #2 stared at me. "The Homestead Act... was not repealed."
"Yes it was," I said. Because I was SURE. I had just listened to that podcast. About legislation being repealed. About the problems it caused.
"The Homestead Act," Man #2 said slowly, "gave 160 acres of public land to settlers. It was passed in 1862. It's still technically in effect in Alaska."
"No," I said. "No, that's—you're thinking of something else."
"I'm not."
"You are. Because the Homestead—the one about giving people land—that was causing all the bootlegging and the illegal activity, so they—"
Man #1 interrupted. "Are you talking about Prohibition?"
"What? No. I'm talking about the Homestead Act."
"The Volstead Act," Man #2 said, with the patience of a kindergarten teacher, "was the legislation that enforced Prohibition. It was repealed in 1933."
I stood there.
Box of meats growing warm in my hands.
And realized—
slowly—
horribly—
what I had done.
THE REALIZATION
I had conflated them.
The Volstead Act (Prohibition enforcement).
And the Homestead Act (free land for settlers).
Two completely different pieces of legislation.
From completely different eras.
About completely different things.
And I had—with full confidence—
merged them into one.
In my brain, they were the same.
Because they sounded similar.
Volstead. Homestead.
Both old.
Both acts.
Both... legislation.
That was enough for my brain to file them together.
Into one super-act.
A hybrid law about giving people land and also banning alcohol.
Which made NO SENSE.
But I had committed.
Publicly.
THE DOUBLING DOWN
Here's the thing about being wrong:
The moment you realize it—
you have two choices.
Admit it immediately. Apologize. Learn.
Double down.
Guess which one I chose.
"Okay," I said, "maybe I'm thinking of a different Homestead Act."
"There's only one Homestead Act," Man #2 said.
"Are you sure? Because I definitely remember learning about the Homestead Act being repealed because of bootlegging."
"That," Man #1 said, "is the Volstead Act."
"Right, but wasn't the Volstead Act about land?"
"No."
"Are you SURE?"
"Yes."
"Because my brother—" I gestured with the box of meats "—lives on a homestead. In Montana. And he's always talking about homesteading laws and—"
"That doesn't make the Volstead Act about land."
"I'm not saying it IS. I'm saying maybe they're related."
"They're not."
"But they could be."
"They're not."
THE INTERVENTION
The FedEx employee—a saint of a woman named Patricia, according to her name tag—
cleared her throat.
"Sir? You're next."
I looked at her.
Grateful.
So grateful.
For the interruption.
For the escape route.
I stepped up to the counter.
Set down my box of meats.
Man #1 and Man #2 were still staring at me.
With a mixture of pity and concern.
Like they'd witnessed something tragic.
"I need to ship this," I said to Patricia.
"Where to?"
"Montana."
"What's in the box?"
"Cured meats."
She paused. "You're shipping... meat?"
"Yes."
"In this heat?"
"I have ice packs."
She looked at the box.
Then at me.
Then at the two men behind me, who were now whispering.
I heard fragments:
"...didn't know the difference..."
"...so confident though..."
"...poor guy..."
THE SHAME SPIRAL
Patricia processed my package.
Slowly.
Methodically.
While I stood there.
Drowning in shame.
Not just for being wrong.
But for being confidently wrong.
For inserting myself into a conversation.
Uninvited.
With information I was certain about.
That was completely incorrect.
For doubling down.
For arguing.
For refusing to admit—even when presented with facts—
that I had mixed up two completely different pieces of legislation.
"That'll be $47.89," Patricia said.
I paid.
In silence.
Took my receipt.
And turned to leave.
Man #1 called after me:
"Hey—just so you know—the Volstead Act was about alcohol."
"I know," I said quietly.
"And the Homestead Act was about land."
"I know."
"They're different things."
"I know."
I left.
Walked to my car.
Sat in the driver's seat.
And Googled—just to be completely sure—
"Homestead Act vs Volstead Act."
Wikipedia confirmed what I already knew:
I was an idiot.
THE AFTERMATH
I called Darrell that night.
"Hey, I shipped your meats."
"Thanks, man. Appreciate it."
"Yeah. Uh... question. You know about the Homestead Act, right?"
"Yeah, why?"
"And you know about the Volstead Act?"
"Prohibition enforcement. Yeah."
"They're... different things."
"Obviously."
"Right. Obviously. I just—I got into this thing today where I accidentally—"
"You didn't."
"I did."
"Orson."
"I conflated them."
"In public?"
"At a FedEx."
He laughed.
Laughed.
For a full minute.
"It's not funny," I said.
"It's hilarious. Did you argue about it?"
"...Maybe."
"Oh my god."
"I thought I was right!"
"About Prohibition being related to homesteading?"
"They both end in 'stead'!"
"That's not—that's not how legislation works."
"I KNOW THAT NOW."
THE EDUCATION
After I hung up—
still humiliated—
I did what any reasonable person would do.
I researched.
Extensively.
To make sure this never happened again.
The Homestead Act (1862):
Gave 160 acres of public land to settlers
Required them to live on it and improve it for 5 years
Intended to encourage westward expansion
Displaced Native Americans
Created environmental problems
Ended (mostly) in 1976, with Alaska exemption until 1986
The Volstead Act (1919):
Officially: "National Prohibition Act"
Enforced the 18th Amendment (Prohibition)
Banned manufacture, sale, and transportation of alcohol
Created massive bootlegging industry
Largely unsuccessful
Repealed in 1933 with the 21st Amendment
Similarities:
Both are old U.S. legislation
Both had unintended consequences
Both have "stead" in the name
Differences:
LITERALLY EVERYTHING ELSE
THE PATTERN
This wasn't the first time.
I realized, sitting there with my Wikipedia tabs open,
that I do this.
Regularly.
I conflate things.
Confidently.
Other Examples:
Thought "Holland" and "The Netherlands" were different countries (they're not)
Argued that "The Great Gatsby" was written by Hemingway (it wasn't)
Insisted that "Led Zeppelin" was named after the Hindenburg (partially true, but I explained it very wrong)
Claimed that "Cinco de Mayo" was Mexican Independence Day (it's not—that's September 16th)
Mixed up the Boer War and the Boxer Rebellion (different continents, different eras, different everything)
I don't do it on purpose.
My brain just... files things incorrectly.
Creates connections that don't exist.
And then—crucially—
convinces me I'm right.
THE PSYCHOLOGY
Why do we do this?
Why do we confidently assert things we don't actually know?
I've thought about this.
A lot.
Since the FedEx incident.
And here's what I've concluded:
Theory 1: The Curse of Surface Knowledge
I had heard of both acts. I knew they existed. My brain assumed that knowing they existed was the same as knowing what they were. It wasn't.
Theory 2: Pattern Recognition Gone Wrong
Volstead. Homestead. Similar sounds. Similar era (ish). Both "acts." My brain connected them. Filed them together. Made a false pattern.
Theory 3: The Confidence Trap
The less you know, the more confident you can be. Because you don't know what you don't know. Ignorance breeds confidence. Knowledge breeds doubt.
Theory 4: Social Performance
I wanted to contribute to the conversation. Wanted to seem smart. Educated. Informed. So I jumped in. Without actually checking if what I "knew" was correct.
Theory 5: The Double-Down Reflex
Admitting you're wrong in public feels like social death. So you argue. You defend. You make it worse. Because backing down feels harder than pushing forward. Even when you're clearly, obviously, devastatingly wrong.
THE SOLUTION
After the FedEx incident, I made some rules for myself:
Rule 1: If you're not 100% sure, don't argue.
95% sure? Not enough. 99% sure? Still not enough. If there's even a SLIVER of doubt—stay quiet. Google it later.
Rule 2: "I think" is your friend.
"I think the Homestead Act was repealed" is wrong, but recoverable. "The Homestead Act WAS repealed" is wrong and committed. Leave yourself an escape route.
Rule 3: If someone corrects you, say "Oh, you're right" immediately.
Not "Are you sure?" Not "But I thought..." Just: "Oh, you're right. My bad." And MOVE ON.
Rule 4: Don't insert yourself into conversations uninvited.
Especially about topics you learned from podcasts you half-listened to while doing dishes.
Rule 5: Wikipedia first, argue later.
If you have the urge to correct someone or contribute a fact, pull out your phone FIRST. Check. Verify. Then speak. Or don't speak. Often don't speak is better.
THE APOLOGY
I never saw those men again.
Man #1 and Man #2.
My debate opponents.
My educators.
My witnesses to shame.
But if I could, I'd say:
"You were right. Both of you. The Homestead Act and the Volstead Act are completely different. I conflated them. I argued when I should have listened. I doubled down when I should have admitted error. I'm sorry for wasting your time and for being That Guy. The guy who confidently argues about things he doesn't understand. I'm working on it. But I'm not there yet. As evidenced by... all of that."
They probably wouldn't remember me.
Or they would.
But as a funny story.
"Remember that guy at FedEx who thought Prohibition was about land?"
And honestly?
I deserve that.
THE BROTHER
Darrell got his meats.
Called me when they arrived.
"They made it. Still cold. Thanks, man."
"Good. Good. Did you know—and I'm just checking—did you know that the Homestead Act and the Volstead Act are different things?"
"Yes, Orson. I did know that."
"Just making sure."
"Are you still obsessing over this?"
"A little."
"It was two weeks ago."
"I KNOW."
"Let it go."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
But I couldn't.
Because the memory lives there now.
In my brain.
Filed under: "Times You Were Confidently Wrong in Public."
A growing folder.
A concerningly large folder.
THE MORAL
So here's what I learned:
Not from the acts themselves.
But from confidently conflating them.
Moral 1: Surface knowledge is dangerous.
Knowing something exists doesn't mean you know what it is.
Moral 2: Confidence is not the same as correctness.
You can be wrong with complete conviction. I am proof.
Moral 3: Admitting error is a skill.
And like all skills, it requires practice. I need more practice.
Moral 4: Sometimes the best contribution to a conversation is silence.
You don't have to weigh in on everything. Listening is also valuable.
Moral 5: Your brain will lie to you.
It will create false connections. File things incorrectly. And then present those errors as facts. Be skeptical. Even of yourself. Especially of yourself.
THE EPILOGUE
I still go to that FedEx.
It's the closest one.
Every time I walk in, I glance around.
Looking for them.
Man #1. Man #2.
Ready with my apology.
My admission.
My explanation of how I've grown.
But they're never there.
Patricia is, though.
She recognizes me now.
Always greets me the same way:
"Shipping more meats?"
"Not today."
"You sure? I could use the entertainment."
She knows.
She knows.
And I accept that.
Because some mistakes aren't erased.
They're just... incorporated.
Into who you are.
Into the stories people tell.
"Remember that guy who argued about Prohibition and homesteading while holding salami?"
That's me.
Forever.
THE FINAL THOUGHT
Volstead. Homestead. Volstead instead ousted.
The words still sound similar.
Still confuse my brain.
But now I know.
I know the difference.
The Volstead Act was about alcohol.
The Homestead Act was about land.
They are not the same.
They are not related.
They don't even make sense together.
And yet—
for one brief, humiliating moment at a FedEx on a Tuesday afternoon—
in my mind—
holding $87 worth of cured meats—
they were.
And two strangers—
and Patricia—
and my brother Darrell—
will never let me forget it.
Nor should they.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, never to confidently argue about historical legislation again. At least not without Wikipedia open. The FedEx remains. Patricia remains, ready to witness the next confident error, the next public conflation, the next person who thinks knowing a word is the same as knowing what it means. The meats arrive safely in Montana. The shame, however, stays local.)