My whole life has been valleys and lineless roads. Overgrown invasive weeds and a long list of lingering last names. Growing up in a small rural town makes you question where you’ve shaped yourself, and where it has shaped you. Who are you beyond what everyone’s told you to be? Who are you past the fields and the rumors and the deep nostalgic sickness we all become ridden with? It’s a beautiful haunt, every summer, every secret. The warmth of surveillance beyond any measure you can physically see. It’s in the wind, it’s in your bloodline, it’s in you. Everyone knows your past, your every move, even daring to comment on who you will become. Some call this a village, a community even, but theres always dark parts to the circle. Rural small towns are filled with golden memories due to the closeness and togetherness. Yet, the same song that runs in the winds, is the one who whispers to you to leave.
I knew I’d always want to escape it, I knew I wanted to go to school far from it. Choosing a college where I felt like no one in such vastness was such an adjustment. I could express the many holes moving away left within me: no longer feeling present in my family, no longer dancing, no longer doing theater, etc. Yet, one of the largest holes was losing the very closeness I wanted to run from. No one knew who I was, and this was a freeing feeling, but also a scary one. I felt very conflicted between the sudden reality of feeling like no one when I came from somewhere where everything felt exposed. Growing up in such a secluded environment was like being born into prejudiced dynamics. Last names and roads became foundational points judged before character. Now, I had the ability to begin again, untouched, unnamed, and unknown. I fell in love with the feeling of creating and experiencing a new place with new people authentically. My life felt so easy; I finally felt like I could be something more than everything I felt chained to. I was able to meet people and for them to be complete strangers, which was something I was never used to. It was a beautiful thing to be strangers together. I could feel the interconnected weave of the valley morph into open palms, eager.
Starting as a stranger and beginning to feel like someone again was new, exciting, and shaping. However, going home felt uncanny. I longed for the familiarity, the escape of the rural enclave, the mountains especially. They tucked me into the blood pool of memory, judgment, and facade. Going back sometimes felt like seeing ghosts of everyone I once was. It felt like smog in the air that would take my lungs weeks to breathe back out. It stung, many times. Maybe that’s the drama of it all, the heirloom weight it has on every one who leaves it.
I think many people who grew up in small towns feel the same way. You want to prove yourself to someone, whether that’s yourself, or your parents, or the entirety of your family. For me it was always like proving it to the place itself. Proving to the rivers that I too could let the currents take me. Proving to the valley that there is much more than its embrace. Proving to the wind, that its song is sung everywhere.
It never truly leaves you, any of it at all. Growing up known thickens your skin, but becoming a stranger is a new level of shedding. Although the travel back and forth can sometimes feel like motion sickness, it eases. It all becomes a beautiful dance of becoming.
I ground myself in knowing that you can always return to places and that the memories are not found in present things, they’re found within the mind. Memories keep the magic, and the rough edges too. As a sophomore in college, my relationship with the distance has grown easier. I invite the uncanny feeling, as it reminds me of the strength it took to leave something behind. I hold onto the tension, and sink in the thrill.
