It can confidently be said that the place you grow up in has a strong effect on who you are as a person. The culture, people and places that surround you ultimately mold your identity; they influence your beliefs and values. A person that grows up in a tiny town inevitably has a vastly different experience than someone who is raised in a massive metropolis.

My childhood wasn’t “normal” by any standards, to say the least. I grew up in a large city until the age of 14 when I decided to attend boarding school 3,000 miles away from my native home. Until then, I was raised in the heart of one of the most unique cities in the world: San Francisco, California.

As a child, I definitely took the beauty and wonder of this incredible place for granted. I would meet friends at places like summer camp who were jealous that I lived in a place with so much more to offer than the typical strip mall and movie theater. But, to me, it was all I knew. School field trips involved adventures to Yosemite, the Chinatown fortune cookie factory and a scavenger hunt around the city looking for stunning landmarks such as the Cliff House or the Palace of Fine Arts. I was an adventurous eater thanks to the endless possibilities of restaurants from every culture and country across the globe. As a kid, I didn’t like cheese sticks, but I could eat all the sushi you put in front of me.

However, just like many angsty teenagers, I grew in contempt of my hometown fairly quickly. I’d roll my eyes at the tourists on the historic cable cars passing my house, and complain of the traffic outside the driveway because of the line of cars waiting to go down Lombard street. “There’s nothing to do,” I’d whine to my mom as I sat on the couch, a bored 13-year-old on a Friday night.

The best possible thing I could have done for my perspective was to leave. I spent my four years of high school in rural Massachusetts where the most exciting thing within walking distance was a cow farm. I truly loved my school: The beauty of the peaceful valley, experiencing seasons (and New England snowstorms) for the first time and waking up in late October to trees on fire with every hue of orange, yellow and red. But it couldn’t have been further from California culture; from my first experience with someone in a classroom who wasn’t a democrat to the fact that the nearest Mexican food was mediocre at best, my appreciation for my hometown was starting to grow.

I suppose I hadn’t already had enough of a culture shock, so I decided to attend college in the deep south. Confederate flags blazing, I was woken up when a boy my age angrily told me that I’m a terrorist for supporting Obama. Of course, this only represents a portion of the people below the Mason-Dixon line, but I had never before experienced anyone with these views in my life. As a young child, I was taught in school that everyone should be treated the same regardless of gender, race or sexual orientation; I was hard-pressed to find someone that didn’t agree. Let’s just say, there are places in America that aren’t quite there yet; South Carolina being one of them.

I am so grateful for the gift of the diverse education I have received in my 20 years of life. I have already met so many different kinds of people from all over the world, and I can come to the conclusion that I have developed a strong grasp on how cultures can differ. My main takeaway, though, is my appreciation for my childhood in San Francisco. I wish I could give everyone the experience I had surrounded by so many cultures, colors and perspectives all within a realm of respect for one another. I was raised with the most beautiful views. I drove past the Golden Gate Bridge every day on my way to school and the possibilities seemed endless for anyone. I still believe this is true, but I definitely got lucky with the advantage of living and maturing in such an open minded and beautiful city. I am blessed to have lived in a place filled with food, art, acceptance and culture which set the tone for everywhere I have gone and will go in the future.