Boston, MA
when you grow up nowhere and everywhere.
It’s important to know that I grew up nowhere and everywhere. We moved around so much that I didn’t even know what version of myself was most authentic until I was in my early 20s. New places came with new posters and new friends and unseen sights and a type of me that just wanted to fit in.
I was 27 when I first laid eyes on Boston, a city where nobody gives a fuck about who you are or where you come from. A city full of speeding cars over pedestrian crosswalks and nowhere to go but everywhere. History is in every step you take and, with every step you take, you are actively unbecoming the learnings of a life lived nowhere and everywhere. Belonging only to your breath and, if you’re pretentious, a small half calf no foam light whip nonfat vanilla cappuccino from one of the many Dunkin’ Donuts findable on every street corner in this brash and beautiful city.
But again, if you’re pretentious, remember that here, in this city bathed in history and crosswalks, nobody gives a fuck. Cigarette butts line the city sidewalks like memories discarded along the travels of life. I imagine each hand holding the butt of the discarded Marlboro at its state of brand new, all of the mouths inhaling and exhaling the last acceptable poison, all of the thoughts that might have been fleeting or staying or life changing that occurred during the 2 1/2 minutes it takes to smoke to the state of final. Their steps ahead of me and behind me, all at the same time. We never cross paths, but here I am, taking stride along the same cracked cement lines of their moments. I don’t smoke anymore, but if I did, I imagine that I might name each butt I flick out of the realm of my now and into another person’s future. Memories should never be a stranger. This city makes you think that way. It gives you the permission to be that unencumbered version of yourself that you might have been dreaming about being since you became old enough to start dreaming.
For the ones who grew up nowhere and everywhere, there’s a place in between that meets you at the city streets with littered crosswalks that never seemed so clean. There’s a crossroads in the heart of this city that will hug you home and give you back the years spent alone searching for some sort of belonging. Somewhere. Nowhere. Everywhere. This city of the Revered is the only place where I felt like I fit in. For the first time. For the last time. For the 8 days spent keeping pace with all of the cigarette butts at a time that reminded me that I was just right in really not giving a fuck, save for the falling in love with this entire city and how it made me see myself. Unfiltered. Unpacked. And finally present in the presence of nowhere and everywhere.
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