I belonged, as a little one, in a pretty little town with fat red squirrels.
I belonged, in middle childhood, in a trailer court just outside a medium-sized town. Our short street was named for the swineherd in Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe, and we flew our kites in a field owned by a waste management site that seemed more like a nature preserve.
I belonged through my teen years (in a borrowed sort of way) to a tiny town and fields in Forgottonia. When I say I am "from" somewhere, this is the place I pick. Here, too, are plump red squirrels.
Now I live in the suburbs, a place where, on principle, I do not wish to belong. Suburbs do not match the trailer court, and the squirrels here are puny and gray--and some people are afraid of them. Also, I half-way subscribe to a snooty idea that suburbs are like little houses with big pillars.
It is always more fun to look down one's nose at something beyond one's self than to look at it directly, even if this means tilting one's head back to a ridiculous extent.
Yet the sun shines through leaves as exquisitely here as anywhere, and wild plants grow by the railroad tracks. People smile and hold doors for each other, and I've even seen barn swallows slicing the air above the park.
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Where are you from, and how does that influence your preferences and perceptions?
I grew up in East Boston, Massachusetts. Where to begin?
ReplyDeleteIn 1971, when I was 2, and for many years after, it was predominantly Italian-American, with lots of Catholic churches, a Presbyterian church, a Lutheran church, and one synagogue (which burned down in '74). "Diversity" meant Irish, or Jewish; although unmistakably urban, in the '70s, Eastie was no melting pot, and no bastion of tolerance. Lots of triple-deckers. Baseball and football fields. In lieu of a nature preserve, we had (and have) the jumbo jets of Logan International Airport.
I grew up without knowing the names of birds (except pigeons), the names of flowers (except dandelions, which are a weed), and the names of beasts (except dogs). I can still probably name all the stations along the Blue Line, the part of the MBTA subway and surface-train system that goes through Eastie.
In 1979 or 80, when I was in the sixth grade, there was an ugly incident of a racist nature, that didn't make the newspapers, but which is printed ineffaceably on my memory, as the victim of the incident was a beloved teacher. I shall have to write more about that someday.
Oh, there's more about Eastie here.
The neighborhood did evolve (it's now 60% Latino and 20% white); it's still somewhat rough-and-tumble, if the understatement can be pardoned; and, to my mind, it's intolerably noisy.
I now live in suburban Arlington, northwest of Cambridge. My city upbringing -- my upbringing in a city of many colleges and universities -- has left me with a prejudice in favor of places with lots of big bookstores! Fortunately, Arlington is a short bus ride from Cambridge. Ideal, almost: removed enough from the city to be (usually) quiet, and close enough to the city's conveniences.
Thank you for introducing me to these new places, Thomas! I also very much enjoyed reading your linked poem about Eastie. I hope you do write about what happened to your teacher. It sounds like a difficult story, but one worth telling.
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