I recently visited James Dean’s hometown — Fairmount, Indiana — to try to uncover the source of the film star’s enduring legend, or at least, my own fascination with him.

Dean, who died a violent, horrific death in a car crash 60 years ago at the age of 24, only appeared in three films — East of Eden (1955), Rebel Without a Cause (1955), and Giant (1956)— and yet he’s one of the most recognizable actors of all time. His image has been imitated, manipulated, and duplicated thousands of times in order to sell every product imaginable, from hand soap and perfume to CD players and home security systems, and of course, blue jeans.

James Dean’s influence is still everywhere. In the last few years, he’s been name-dropped in songs by Lana Del Rey and Taylor Swift, among others. But what do people mean when they name-drop James Dean? What is it about him that has made him such a cultural touchstone? Why does Fairmount, Indiana, still hold a yearly festival celebrating his life and legacy, and why do thousands of people from around the world attend?

Who do people talk about when they talk about James Dean? Was he gay? Was he straight? Was he closeted or promiscuous or somewhere in between? Was he a jerk, or did he just have a wicked sense of humor? Was he one of the most breathtakingly original, revolutionary acting talents ever to stand in front of a camera, or was he an emperor with no clothes, as Elia Kazan, who directed him in East of Eden, believed?

In short, what does James Dean mean, and to whom, in the twenty-first century?

My roommate and I arrive in Fairmount on a Friday. Walking down Main Street, I’m reminded of the passage in David Dalton’s biography James Dean: The Mutant King, where he describes Fairmount as “the quintessence of the small town […], the perfect economy of a Warner Brothers’ set — a backlot Anytown sandwiched squarely between Westerntown and Anytime, New York.” Dalton visited Fairmount in 1974. Here, now, 40 years later, I’m happy to see his description remains true.

Fairmount does look like a movie set, and the street fair going on reminds me so much of the carnival in East of Eden that I consider for a moment whether it’s been intentionally set up that way. But then, I suppose, that’s exactly the appeal of Fairmount — it really could be Anytown, USA. This street carnival, this midway on Main Street, with its rows of flashing pastel lights, roaming squads of squealing children, and the scent of funnel cake and buttery popcorn, is precisely how Hollywood would envision a small-town street fair. It seems right.

We stop by the James Dean Run, an annual car show that brings thousands of classic cars from around the country and displays them in Playacres Park. I decide at first it’s rather morbid to hold a car show in memory of a man who was killed in “a smashup,” as they used to say. But then I think of Lew Bracker’s memoir Jimmy and Me. Lew and Jimmy were racing buddies; Lew describes in detail just how much Jimmy loved cars. As horrific as the crash was, Jimmy died doing something he loved. How many of us will be able to say that?

I’m not really a car person, but it’s hard to resist the appeal of polished chrome, glittering paint jobs, and sleek, aerodynamic design. As such, I enjoy walking around the car show, and even more, I enjoy stumbling across a souvenir table. At first I’m nervous that the table will be full of overpriced, kitschy, cynically commercial items designed to wring every penny from the scores of tourists, but I discover happily that everything — t-shirts, keychains, buttons, and especially posters — is cheap without being cheaply-made. I buy a bundle of five theatre-sized posters for $5, and carry it around proudly for the rest of the night.

Leaving the park, I spot a familiar-looking building in the distance. We’ve come upon Fairmount High School, where Jimmy first discovered acting. It appears to be a full, complete building when you’re looking at it from the front, but the second you see it from an angle, you realize that the entire back half of the building has collapsed in on itself; the front is just a facade, concealing a shockingly large pile of brick and rubble behind. There are chalkboards and desks sticking haphazardly out of the debris, giving the impression that school was in session the day the building came down.

At first, I think that this must have happened recently, within the past week at the most. My mind is racing, imagining emergency town council meetings rushing to figure out how to clear away the wreckage before the tourists arrive, but then a woman in the crowd taps away at her phone and tells the assembled onlookers that, apparently, the building has been this way for several years. This isn’t mid-demolition. This is how it looks, all the time.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” says the man next to me. He tells me he lives in nearby Marion, and he can’t believe the town didn’t preserve the school because of its historical significance. “He went to school here!” he says, incredulous. “And now look at it!” The man doesn’t define which he he’s talking about; of course I already know. Listening to the reverent way he talks, I imagine his uses of He and His are capitalized.

“Y’know, He was born in Marion. And they knocked down the building. It’s a parking lot!” he laughs incredulously. “And over at the Winslow Farm — I’ve been there — you can see in one of the barns a spot where He wrote His name, just before He died!” Wow, I say. That’s pretty special. “And, I’ve heard… I never went inside the school myself, but I heard if you went in there, there were places you could still see His writing on the chalk boards. And now look at it.” He wanders away, shaking his head sadly.

I don’t tell him I think this is a tad unlikely, as James Dean graduated in 1949 and the school was still open for business until 1986. Sometimes, I think, as I stare up into the ruins, up into the past, it’s better to believe the legend.

It’s dark, and the moon is rising over Fairmount. I feel numb. I had been so comforted, so amused, by the way Fairmount had seemingly frozen itself in time as a way to preserve Jimmy’s memory that seeing the high school in that state was shocking.

We pull into Park Cemetery, following the handwritten signs that direct us to “James Dean, Top of the Hill,” and I try to recall what I’ve read about the star’s gravesite — stories of people coming from around the world to kiss the headstone, or even stranger, to fool around on top of the grave, only to be caught by the groundskeeper. There are two people at the top of the hill now, but as our headlights sweep across them, they get back in their car and pull away, leaving us alone with Jimmy.

As I sit in front of the headstone, staring at the fresh lipstick prints above his name, taking in the cigarettes, Miller Lite, and hubcap that have been left as offerings from fans, I realize I’m in the same spot Jimmy is — not just where he was. But now, here, he — what is left of him — is here, six feet below me. A man who in essence was an abstract idea, has become a physical body. By coming to this spot and focusing my attention on the fact that there is something remaining of the man he once was, I’ve undone the very transformation I came here to investigate. The myth is once more, for me, a man.

My roommate points out how well-kept the cemetery is. Nearly every grave has flowers on it. Many are illuminated by what appear to be solar-powered LEDs. I don’t see a single headstone that looks weathered. Aside from a few extra flowers, Jimmy’s grave is no more elaborate than anyone else’s. The legend of James Dean may have taken on a life of its own after that fateful day sixty years ago. But now, in death, Jimmie from Fairmount is just like anyone else in the area: a hometown boy, come home to rest.

The next afternoon, after driving past the Winslow Farm where Jimmy grew up, we visit the James Dean Gallery and the Fairmount Historical Museum. Both museums share a fair amount of overlap, but in general, the Gallery is devoted more to Jimmy’s legacy, whereas the Historical Museum contains objects relevant to his life.

At the Gallery, we see rows of products bearing Jimmy’s likeness: posters for his movies in various languages, handwritten letters to and from Jimmy, costumes he wore in his films, sheet music with his face on the cover, records, magazines, statuettes, masks, and so many buttons.

I spot a handwritten journal kept by the Reverend Jim DeWeerd, who preached at Back Creek Friends Church and who has come to be quite a controversial figure in the Dean mythos thanks to his role as Jimmy’s mentor.

Depending on who you read, many people believe that the Reverend abused Jimmy. Reportedly, Jimmy told Elizabeth Taylor as much, which she then confided in a reporter with the caveat that he not publish the article until after her death, as she’d promised to take Dean’s secret to the grave. Other people, like Paul Alexander, believe the relationship was friendly, consensual, even if Jimmy was a teenager. Alexander cites Jimmy’s lifelong interest in bullfighting, which he picked up from watching a film DeWeerd had made of a bullfight he’d seen in Mexico.

What is accepted fact is that Jimmy continued to write the Reverend letters throughout his life (I read one at the Museum) and that DeWeerd delivered the eulogy at Jimmy’s funeral. Otherwise, it’s all open to interpretation.

Aside from this journal, and the fact that the Gallery sells copies of John Gilmore’s Live Fast — Die Young, I find no other references to any of Jimmy’s reported male lovers. Granted, there is a ton of stuff on display, so there is a good chance I missed something. But, although both museums are laid out quasi-chronologically, telling the story of his career and romantic life through the objects he created, touched, and left behind — trinkets from Pier Angeli, letters to Barbara Glenn, an autographed photo of Terry Moore — I find no mention of Rogers Brackett, the older male producer who Jimmy lived with for a while, who paid Jimmy’s way to New York, and who made many of the connections that enabled Jimmy to be cast in his television roles. Similarly, I spy a signed cast poster from a New Jersey production of Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean tucked among a wall of posters, but I don’t see anything about the movie, or its positioning of Jimmy as a queer icon.

Later that night, we attend the Little Jimmy Dean Lookalike Contest on the Main Stage. Parents from around the country have brought their young ones, signed them up to compete, and dressed them in mini versions of James Dean’s outfits. As I watch the cute little toddlers stumble around the stage to thunderous applause from the audience, I realize that this is perhaps the purest expression I’ve seen all weekend of James Dean’s popular image being completely divorced from his actual life. What does James Dean mean to these kids? Can they possibly have even seen Rebel Without a Cause? James Dean, for these children, is a funny-looking jacket, or a reason to wear your hair high, and that’s about all.

And yet I can’t help but get caught up in the silly theatrics of it all. Some of them perform James as a completely blank slate, as Eden director Elia Kazan claims he was; others slouch around, hands shoved in their pockets, in their best approximation of a “cool guy” pose. Others seem to have no idea they’re “performing” at all, and they leave the stage almost immediately, arms cutely outstretched in search of their parents. As we laugh and clap, I think it’s somehow fitting the winner is the person who undoubtedly has the least idea who James Dean was.

Following the Little Jimmy Dean Lookalike Contest is the James Dean Lookalike Contest, featuring people from around the world who have flown here just for this event. We stand by the registration table with an up-close view of the contestants. My roommate and I amuse ourselves picking early favorites based on who looks the best in the dim lighting — if we let our eyes go out of focus, it almost seems as if multiple James Deans walk among us, and if we wanted to, we could reach out and touch them.

And then the lookalikes step onto the stage, and in the glare of the spotlight, it’s obvious that they’re not James Dean. They’re just people in costume, just like the children. These grown-ups have clearly studied James Dean’s posture and personality more than the children have, and their outfits are in many cases meticulous recreations of clothing Jimmy wore in his movies and more recognizable photographs. But they aren’t him.

Unlike the Little Jimmy Dean Lookalike Contest, however, the actual competition has judges, including Lew Bracker, Jimmy’s best friend in LA and the racing buddy whose memoir nearly brought me to tears. In addition to playing to the crowd, the Jimmys and Jameses and Jim Starks and Cal Trasks and Jett Rinks on stage have to win over the judges, and all at once the whole affair takes on a more surreal quality. Many of the guys decide this means going down the line shaking hands.

I find myself repulsed, in a way; I can’t imagine dressing up like James Dean and shaking the hand of his best friend. It makes me consider the bizarre selfishness of this thing we call movie fandom. Nearly none of us at this festival actually knew James Dean, and yet, we presume to dress up like him, act like him, and mourn his death? Why?

Many of the competitors have multiple costumes. One lookalike, whom I’ve picked as one of my early favorites, steps on stage wearing light blue pants, sunglasses, and a long white t-shirt, with gloves hanging out of his back pocket, and I gasp. My roommate looks at me, and I tap away at my phone and then hold up a photo.

“He’s wearing what he wore on the day of the crash,” I say.

And he’s done a damn good job — after another few rounds of elimination, this death-day outfit wins him the competition.

After the contest is over, I introduce myself to Lew Bracker and tell him I enjoyed his book and found it touching. He thanks me, and I ask him, “Is judging this sort of competition kind of strange for you?”

He smiles, shaking his head as if to say he’s had 60 years to get used to it. He says, “It’s all good fun.”

As my roommate and I head back to the car, our trip to Fairmount drawing to a close, we come across a walking tour standing at the bust of Jimmy in the center of town. A man named Mark Kinnaman is explaining that the bust is identical to one at the Griffith Observatory in LA.

He announces that the next stop will be “the church,” and the tour starts walking. I’ve had my eye out for the church where Jimmy’s funeral was held all weekend, and I haven’t seen it yet. It’s what feels like one final piece of the puzzle, one final location where I might learn something about Jimmy’s life and his death, and about why people still care.

We follow the tour, which I realize is made up of a Fellini-esque cast of now-familiar people I’ve seen around Fairmount all weekend: some of the judges from the competition and some of the lookalikes, who are now half-out of costume; some of the people who were with us last night as we stared up at the ruins of Fairmount High School in shock; and even the woman who sold me the bundle of posters the previous afternoon. Everyone is smiling and laughing and talking to each other jovially, happy to be together, now, here, in this town where He once was.

Our guide tells us that more than 2,000 people came to Fairmount for the funeral — a town which normally boasts that many residents — to pay their respects to Jimmy. While Marcus Winslow let certain people into the church to make sure those who mattered got to see the ceremony, most people filled the streets around us, as far as the eye could see, to just be near. “They set up speakers,” Kinnaman says, “so that people outside could hear what was going on. I’ve had people tell me that the speakers didn’t work; I’ve also had people say they could hear everything.”

In other words, like so many other things about the James Dean legend — from his sexuality to his upbringing to his either revolutionary or nonexistent acting ability — depending on whom you speak to, depending on who is doing the remembering and the storytelling, the funeral took place both here and there, and to the people outside it was audible and silent. Both possibilities — all possibilities — are true and false, all at once, forever.

Soon, the walking tour moves on, but we stay behind. I stand on the steps and look up at the church, and I think I may have finally realized what it is about the James Dean story that continues to fascinate and inspire, several generations after September 30, 1955. I think we still care not only because James Dean has come to represent the inevitability of death, but also, simultaneously, inextricably, he reminds us of the possibility of immortal life through the power of memory.

Most of us will not have one museum dedicated to our lives, let alone two in the same town. Most of us probably won’t have yearly parades thrown in our honor. Our faces probably won’t be painted on the sides of water towers, and we probably won’t have people fly to our graves from around the world to kiss our headstones.

But James Dean’s enduring influence reminds us of our own power to leave a mark on our own little corners of the world. Fairmount’s yearly ritualized remembrance of Jimmie Dean the hometown boy is a way of bringing him back to life, just for a while, to thank him for making them proud. Every time we, too, remember someone, we bring them to life again, if only for a moment.

“One of these days, I might be able to contribute something to the world,” Jimmy once wrote in a letter to his aunt and uncle, excited about the prospect of embarking on a meaningful career in Hollywood.

Contribute something to the world, indeed.

(Adapted from a much longer travelogue available here.)