Where are you from?
Maybe it’s because I’m graduating soon and will have to start the dance of relocation, but I have been thinking a lot lately about the meaning of “community” and what that means in my life. As much as I enjoy being mobile, shiftless, footloose, fancy-free and similar adjectives, my last move, at which time I realized that I had nothing to sit on and only about four cups to drink out of despite having lived on my own since the age of 18, was difficult and somewhat of an eye-opener. With an impending move in front of me (although where exactly that will be is still up in the air), I feel a strange compulsion to make this one count.
As far back as my middle school years, I have never “fit in” at a specific place. My parents moved from St. Louis to Jefferson County, a rural area infamous for its terrifying and poorly maintained roads and for boasting the greatest amount of roadside trash of the surrounding counties (because people will specifically come to our neck of the woods to dump the stuff that the municipal garbage collectors won’t pick up). Since about 1996, Jefferson County has also earned the dubious distinction of largest number of methamphetamine-related busts, arrests, and labs. It’s a proud place.
Family and the church are my parents’ main social outlets, then as now, and because I was either homeschooled or enrolled in the homeschool collaborative/unaccredited Christian Outreach School during my Jefferson County years (with a brief stint at the local rural-district high school where I got myself into a heap o’ trouble), my brother and I were odd ducks among the kids at the church youth functions who all attended schools in the neighboring town. But I was also out of place at my school, since my parents belonged to a different denomination that regarded the school’s Pentecostal-derived religiosity with one of extreme suspicion (with good reason, in my mind: have you ever seen your principal cast demons out of a classmate who was caught vandalizing school property? I have!) Also, I think the school could smell my agnosticism. During my senior year I set the institutional record for in-school suspensions (8), got early morning detention 14 times, and was nearly barred from graduation for some reason or another. My parents were so proud.
So, even at my “home”, I was somewhat of a stranger. On what can best be described as a flight of fancy to prove to my family that I was capable of higher education, I won a scholarship to a private Southern Baptist university in southwest Missouri and spent two years there on the verge of expulsion (for underage drinking, cigarette smoking and fornication on school property, all of which were forbidden). Although I made a lot of great friends and worked several jobs in town, including the county hospital and a family restaurant that forced me to wear a bandaid over my nose ring and–worse yet–khaki pants, I contributed nothing to the community and never felt a part of it. In fact, I felt distinctly superior, as did most of my classmates, to the “townies” whom we derided as uneducated and backward notwithstanding the fact that many of us were from similar places (shout-out to Jefferson County, Meth Capital of the United States) and happened to be lucky or privileged enough to attend a four-year university.
For a combination of reasons I transferred to the regional state university in the bustling metropolis of Springfield, Missouri–third largest city in the state!–to complete my degree. I lived in Springfield for about four years and I have to say it’s the place where I most felt a part of the community; despite the town’s flaws, I felt at home there. Unfortunately, when I go back it’s unsettling: most of my friends or people who hung around during my time there have, like me, moved on, and I feel a combination of sadness and relief when I visit. I don’t want to live there, but I had some great times there; I had a community that I missed and longed for during that first year in New York.
However, it was never my intention to settle down in Springfield and to steel myself for the eventual move I found a lot of things to hate about it. I jumped at the chance to leave for New York despite having never been east of Ohio and spent the next couple of years in Brooklyn. The move was very difficult for me. My brother moved at the same time, to Hawaii for graduate school, and being an entire continent away from him for the first time was a shock that I had not anticipated. I had to work a series of menial jobs when I first arrived and dropped out of Americorps–juice bar, prep cook, barista at an anarchist coffee shop–and felt weird being part of the wave of gentrification sweeping into mid-Brooklyn at the time. Once, I was walking down the block and felt something pelt the back of my jacket. I turned and saw three little kids throwing rocks at me, surrounded by a large group of their (presumably) parents, siblings and other neighbors looking on with blank expressions. It sucked to be their target, just as it sucks for them that my white face on their block symbolizes rent hikes and Starbucks moving into the space where the corner store used to be. For that reason, and the fact that I’m not from the East Coast, I never felt I could call Brooklyn home although I grew to love it. (And the jeers, catcalls and so forth really did subside once people started recognizing me around the neighborhood.)
For the past year I’ve lived in southeast Michigan. When people ask where I’m from, I tell them Missouri, but have to explain why I still have a New York driver’s license and New York phone number. I never realized until recently how strange it still seems to many people–even people my age and younger, who are supposedly more mobile than any previous generation–that I have moved around so much, that I don’t plan on returning to Missouri or New York or remaining in Michigan, that even though my family lives in St. Louis I don’t call that “home”. One of the texts I’m reading for my global social work class talks about the “new nomadicism” of the millennium generation, which is becoming possible due in part to globalization, technology, and the newfound, relative ease of travel. Although I fit the description to a T, I find it hard to justify moving from place to place without giving something to the community you infringe upon and then leave behind. I think this is especially important for white yuppies and hipsters and artsy types to be conscious of, as oftentimes we tend to cluster in the traditionally ethnic neighborhoods of cities because the rent is cheaper. It’s the new imperialism, in a way.
I’m interested to hear your thoughts on this. What makes you feel part of a community? How would you define your community, if you have one–is it specific to a place, such as your neighborhood; or is it more figurative, such as your family or group of friends, even if they don’t live nearby? What are some ways we can contribute to the places where we live, even if it’s on a temporary basis? And what about the much-lauded new technologies, such as social networking sites and the blogosphere, which make “virtual” communities possible, or have the potential to extend the life of friendships/community membership even after you’ve moved away?
I certainly don’t have all the answers, but here’s a few of the things I’ve done during my time in Michigan that have made me feel a part of the Ann Arbor community:
1. Attend City Hall meetings when issues of importance to me have arisen. Specifically, this has been around the issue of sweeping immigration raids that have been conducted (illegally, I believe) in the county, using our county resources, which is detestable. I also went to a school board meeting last year to show my support for the extension of same-sex domestic partnership benefits to teachers and faculty members.
2. Read the local newspaper…even though it’s only 3 sections and usually just yammers on about the football team. At times, there’s been some interesting stuff in there, particularly in the op-ed pages. I even made the news anonymously over the summer in the “Police Beat” section after an unfortunate incident with one of the community mental health center denizens.
3. Volunteer with an organization or cause unaffiliated with the university.
4. Be nice to my neighbors. This has paid off, as I’ve gotten in return free veggies from the farmer’s market and offers to cat-sit.
5. Go to local benefits/lectures/gallery shows for nifty organizations. I’m particularly enamored with the Washtenaw Interfaith Coalition for Immigrant Rights.
6. Ride the bus. Not only is this helpful for my work, when I am able to tell people which route to take and how to get from here to there, but I feel it’s important to learn how to get around your city without simply getting in your car to drive everywhere. Plus it reduces your carbon footprint, for fuck’s sake. See also: bicycle (although I can tell you from painful experience that Springfield, Missouri is not a terribly cycling-friendly city, so do be careful).
7. Register to vote in your locality. Despite my New York identification, I registered to vote in Ann Arbor this year so I could vote on some fantabulous state propositions (including medical marijuana and stem cell research–which both passed!), University regents, and pro-choice district judges and house representatives. These are things that directly affect me and will affect the community after I leave, so I wanted to make my mark.
8. If you can afford it, support your local businesses.
Does anyone else have other ideas or stories about how they’ve carved out a place in their community?
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November 11th, 2008 at 9:43 am
As cheesy as this sounds, the University has always been the center of my community. I know that says a lot about who I am as a person, but I’m most comfortable surrounded by students of varying backgrounds and goals who are all in one place for one reason: to learn! (hence the cheese) Wherever I’ve lived, that has been my community…and as you know I’ve gone from Brooklyn to Hawaii to Michigan (and people are always apt to make comments about my Hawaii license haha). Interesting post, Annah!
November 12th, 2008 at 9:40 pm
Home is where the heart is. Whether you’ve read this on a wooden plaque hanging over someone’s toilet, or heard it spouted from some moderately creepy Disney cartoon, it does carry a modicum of truth. I’ve been living in Springfield for several years at this point. Most of my dearest friends have left me far behind and I applaud their success and personal bravery. I consider the moving and the maintaining of said moved state an admirable achievement. I’ve moved and been terribly lonely and I’ve remained and been terribly lonely. Personally, I believe that there are two types of community: the community of friends and the community of comfort.
I’ve been teaching international students for almost two years now. The dropout rate for most students is relatively high in the first semester. A lot of students fail their classes and return home to their own countries because they have lost their community. Sure, they can find other students who speak their language, and they can find friends to get ridiculously drunk with, but that doesn’t necessarily provide them with any comfort. Time differences force them into talking to friends only late at night or by instant messenger. They write essays about loneliness, about how they don’t have the support that they do in their own country. If students finish the program and have the option to continue on at the local Uni, they choose to return home. They’ve lost their comfort. As much as they might love the U.S. (Chicago and NY specifically), they still return home at the end of their two year stint in the U.S.
I, on the other hand, have left and returned. I abandoned Alaska because I felt it had abandoned me long before I arrived. I felt good in New York because I was on my own. My family left Jackson in search of the comfort of family. I didn’t go to a writing school in LA because my uncle is boundary-less man. I’m relatively content with the decisions that I have made thus far, but I feel that the party is almost over, and I should leave before there are only empty beer bottles and crushed party hats for me to clean up. What I have noticed about my prolonged stay is that I don’t necessarily believe a community is where you’ve lived the longest, but where your friends are physically. I’ve felt more comfortable while traveling with friends in Hawaii, Colorado, Trinidad, Ireland, Mexico, California or just crashing on a friend’s couch in A2, than I am in Springfield sometimes. It’s not that I hate the city; I’m used to it, actually indifferent, to the general annoyances at this point. It’s comfortable. It’s easy. It just lacks the luster of friendships. I’m content to be here, but I’m lacking in any distinct community of friends. Perhaps my home is with friends. Though they are scattered, I feel more at home when visiting them, or talking to them, whether it be in another state or another country, than I do where I grew up or where I’ve lived for the last few years. I feel my community when I’m with my significant other or one of my other best friends. The locale is irrelevant.
Oh God, stitch that on a pillow.
November 13th, 2008 at 7:31 pm
I’ve moved around a lot too, and never really fit in anywhere. There was Nevada (that’s pronounced with a long a and hick accent for anyone not from Missouri), Bolivar, Springfield, Philadelphia, and now this weird, weird little town in Maryland.
But now, despite the surprise of the locale, I think I’ve finally found a “community” of sorts, and it’s a pretty damn cool feeling. Last night I ran across the street to borrow a can of tomatoes from a neighbor, had to stop to talk to three others along the way, and made a date to go to a movie with a fourth. I love my neighborhood
And for the first time in four years, when someone mentioned moving away, I actually felt a little sad. Go figure.
November 17th, 2008 at 5:17 pm
This is a subject frequently discussed amongst friends/neighbors/Portland transplants. It’s strange sometimes to live in a city in which almost nobody actually grew up. (So far, only 2-3 friends I’ve made are actually from the area.) Also strange: thousands of midwest transplants. I talk so much shit on “these people” who only move here because it’s cool, drive up the rent rates, shit on my favorite bars, and only hang out only with their group of friends that they moved here with. But you know what? In a lot of ways, I’M one of those people. We all move here in search of something greater, “cooler”, easier, lefter, etc. What’s the point of preaching to the choir, so to speak?
That being said, I’ve been here for nearly four years now, and that’s practically made me a Portlander. (I think they say 5+ years and you’re a local.) I love so many things about this city that I have to respect it and try to give back. I vote on local measures, shop locally, donate to the forest service, pick up trash, meet my neighbors, etc etc. I’ve been trying to think about moving lately, where I would like to go, what schools I’m attracted to, and I’m instantly sad and hesitant. Like you, I’ve moved around so much that I don’t take it lightly. I moved here searching for home, and I’ve found it, but how can I protect it? What qualities in a new city will I need to ensure the sense of “home”?
I’m tired of my gypsy lifestyle, but I’m afraid it’s now a generational trait. We just keep moving…
November 18th, 2008 at 10:14 pm
I have never lived anywhere else, unless you want to count the utility-less marijuana farm that my parents had (in the ’80s) an hour and a half East of Springfield. I lived in the same house for about fourteen years. I changed schools twice. For the most part, the closest friends I ever made were ones I met at the Rainbow Gathering, from Maine, New Mexico, California, and Virginia; ones that were also raised as hippies and vegetarians. We incessantly wrote letters to each other all year long. I only saw them for two weeks out of the year.
The kids here didn’t want to (or were forbidden from) be friends with kids who didn’t attend church. I felt alienated from the other children and longed to be home-schooled. The first time I changed schools, the only person who would be my friend had Pagans for parents. I tried my best to conform, but no one ever bought it. My friends in high school were mostly from other high schools. Several of the teachers I had would prompt students to lead our classes in prayer. There were sermons given in the lunch room. Religious organizations were formed on school grounds. I skipped class, I didn’t do homework, I taught myself about Dadaism and Surrealism in math class. I got drunk constantly and got myself into more trouble than any fifteen year old could handle. I did my best to distance myself from what I saw to be average people. This little goth girl had two best friends - a punk and a hippie.
Since then I’ve only ever had a few close friends at a time. I tend to keep to myself. I’ve never thought of myself as being part of the Springfield community. It’s definitely hard to be a liberal in such a conservative place. Even though I’ve been here my entire life, I still don’t feel that I am attached to this place. I’ve always relied on my friends to be my community. Is that not where people are supposed to feel most comfortable?
November 19th, 2008 at 7:55 am
In going back through the list starting from where I was born, where I moved with my family, where I lived on my own, I was astounded to realize that I have lived in at least 17 different homes in my 27 years.
When people ask me “where are you from?” I am forced to either make something up, or tell them honestly that “I don’t have a from.” It’s true, I don’t have a “from” in that sense of the word, as in a place where I was born and raised, where my parents and family still live.
If a community is a locale where you feel completely at home, I agree with Kelly. I feel warm and homey wherever I am when I’m with my peeps.
December 7th, 2008 at 3:17 pm
Home is where my books are…
Community is tricky; you don’t get to pick everyone who comprises the thing, because it’s necessarily a sort of package deal. It’s also usually better in retrospect. There were times in the past when I belonged to one community or another, and I do feel some nostalgia when I think about those times, but when I am being honest with myself I have to admit that I do not want to go back.
I have lived in NYC for almost four years, but I do not feel like a part of a community here. I’ve been here long enough that I think I probably could unlock it if I tried, but it’s not what I want to do with my energy right now. The volunteer work that I’ve done has been really rewarding, but it hasn’t given me any kind of sense of belonging - maybe in part because the programs that I’ve been working for are all the way in QUEENS. But it’s also probably in part because I’ve been working with ESL students, which is wonderful and world-expanding, but also makes me feel strangely lonely…That’s a whole other topic, though.
My family is in Springfield (and Chicago, now), and I feel at home when I visit, until I go out in Springfield and see how much everything has changed/stayed the same.
Maybe NY doesn’t feel like home because I have never intended to “settle down” here, and I doubt that I’ll be here, say, five years from now. But when I try to imagine where I will go next, or what the place that will be my home will look like or feel like, I just get a big blank. So I guess it’ll be a surprise.