Today I took a trip to my hometown. I go back several times a year to visit my grandmother.
There are times when I look at my old town and tell myself that I've evolved past what lies there. That I have no ties to the sheltered existence where I had no black/Jewish/not from this country/ DIFFERENT people in my life. That there is no part of me connected to the simplicity of the small place where I grew up.
Sure, it's easy to produce negativity. The vast majority of the homes are decaying, there is very little business and commerce to sustain employment and trade, the tap water is terrifying, and town politics can sometimes be laughable. It can be the butt of many small town jokes and fits every tiny town stereotype.
But I drove in today and before I even made it in to town I passed my grandparents old homeplace on the left side of the highway. Memories of three wheeler rides, cow pastures, and my cousin's broken arm from a wild horse flooded back. On the right side I passed my uncle's land where I took fishing trips and Bigheart Day turtles with my Dad. I passed a memorial marker for the man responsible for giving the world my cousins, Heath and Shawn, God rest his soul. I passed the entrance to the dirt roads leading to my best friend's house where I got whiplash on a trampoline and let a sheep into the house when Rusty the wonderdog went on a rampage. I passed a sign where my friend's name was printed after being crowned Oklahoma's Junior Miss. I was less than a mile from the final resting place of my beloved Pa and my Aunt Karla.
I drove in to see both of my childhood homes who are now raising other children. Remembering the wildflowers in many colors that grew across the street in the yard of an eccentric but fun neighbor, and the pool where I spent hours relaxing and listening to the music that is the background to my sweetest summer memories. I drove past my elementary school where I was in the inaugural class, my high school where I was student council president, and the empty lot where my very first school once stood before being demolished. I looked at the church that was built by hands of my father and grandfathers, where I met God for the first time, and where I said, "I do" to my husband.
I can lie to myself and pretend that I am separate. That I am somehow special because I was able to "get out". But the truth is there are ghosts in every corner and alleyway. The very fiber of my being is rooted there. My views, my thoughts, my heart have been shaped by my years there.
I know I can't ever go home again. I completed my time there many years ago. My parents aren't even there. But even when my last familial tie is severed. No matter how far I go or how much I resist, I am connected. And even though I am not always beaming with pride, there truly is no place like home. And I am so grateful that for 18 years, it was mine.
