It was the end of August in New York and I wore pants the whole week, despite the fact it was 100 degrees out and the whole island of Manhattan was baking like an inside-out possum on wet asphalt. At 26 years old, I really have no business scabbing up my legs. But that’s what happens when you go home.
Like a true pop punk kid, I wanted nothing more from the ages of 14–18 than to get the Hell out of the only place I’d ever known. It was stiflingly traditional. Weightily religious. Complacently unaware.
But hey, so’s New York. Except the traditions are about cream cheese quantity and the religious choices are less “Lutheran or Catholic” and more “Bronx or Brooklyn.” And if you’ve ever seen a lifelong city dweller catch sight of a deer, you know what I mean about unaware.
Here's a blog I wrote about growing up a Lake Effect Kid.
And here’s a playlist of songs about hometowns — ranging on the “A Day to Remember / Ocala” to “All Time Low / Baltimore” scale of appreciation.