The only traffic light was a crosswalk, installed by the elementary school. It was a good town, a great place to raise a family-- one of those places where everyone knew everyone, literally. Just walking to the post office five minutes away, I would wave at my English teacher driving by, pick up a coffee from my soccer coach at her coffee shop, and chat with my classmate's mom, who was also my Sunday school teacher and substitute math teacher. Chances are, if I knew someone in one context (such as school), I would also know them or another member of their family at work or school.
Football games were a town affair; everyone and their grandparents went to the Friday night games. Parents and neighbors would be chatting it up in the bleachers, huddled beneath grandma's giant quilt while the kids played tag down on the track that circled the field and girls stood at the edge of the mesh temporary fence, hoping to catch the attention of a boy on or off the field. When I worked on those nights, I knew things would be slow in the restaurant; everyone would be at the game. It was a nice, homey and comfortable community.
I was homeschooled for the first 14 years of my life, but my first year at the high school, I knew everyone by first and last name and grade-- yes, it was that small. That's also why I never dated anyone. If a relationship went sour, the couple would never be able to get away from each other because they had nearly all of their classes together. I worked at the only restaurant franchise in town, and we had regulars just like the town's coffee shop-- people who would come in to chat with the manager and ask if she had made up any other new sandwich combinations, or even just chat over the counter and a cup of coffee from the store's Keurig.
The last semester of high school, I was ready to graduate and leave. When I finally did graduate high school, just about everyone in my class-- 33 out of the 35 of us-- went to the local community colleges or some other southern California school. Me, I was out of California; I did not want to be on a campus or even in a city where the chance of running into a classmate was higher than impossible. I had enjoyed knowing them all for 16 years of my life, but it was time to clean the palette and start my adult life away from home. That, and my dislike of excessive heat, led me to the most obvious choice: the Pacific Northwest. I wasn't the only one who left the small-town dust behind; the salutatorian of my class--also my arch nemesis and frenemy-- went even further, all the way to North Carolina.
Regardless of how eager I was to leave, I still love my town: I can walk nearly anywhere in 10 minutes-- the grocery store, work, school, the post office. However, to grow into adulthood and independence, I needed to plant myself in a larger arena of opportunity, away from my childhood supports, and learn to stand on my own two feet. These past two years of college have done just that. This small town girl has learned to successfully navigate the bus system, to buy nutritious groceries on a budget, and has built a support system of friends and peers-- she has found another home.
My small town will always be home, but so is this new home. This city is my city, these people are my friends and family, and I belong here.
