In the almost two decades I have lived on this earth, the entirety of them has been spent in Texas. The hardest part of this destiny was not just the state I was born in, but the town.Â
Cleburne, a suburban town about an hour from Dallas, does not offer much in terms of looks. There is nothing for teenagers to do besides drive to surrounding cities or towns, and of course, the only kind of fast food is mainly centered around fried chicken. I can’t say I’m complaining about that last part, though.
If I could describe Texas outside of my town, it is a sweeping land of urban and suburban sprawl. There is no cohesion, no closeness, and everything, regardless of where you are, feels big and small all at once.Â
The DFW, or Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex, does not have much beauty. It’s mostly brutalist architecture. Though the state contains many backcountry roads with beautiful farms, none have rolling hills. They’re all flat.Â
I thought I hated it. Not just the highways that never end, but the politics and culture.
Seeing Boston for the first time entailed taking perhaps the greatest risk of my life. I was on a gap semester, so even through December, I didn’t know where I would be come January. There was no time or, frankly, money for me to visit Boston, so I packed my bags, bought a one-way ticket alone, and hoped I would not hate the city upon arrival.
Throughout the flight, I kept trying to look out the window to see where I was going, but the man sitting in the window seat closed the blinds. When the plane began to land, his head covered the view that I had only seen on TikTok, but I was eager to see it in real life.Â
I walked through the airport and the little John F. Kennedy memorial, and decided that maybe I would be okay in a place like this. But it was not until I was dropped off at my dorm that I truly saw the city.
I won’t lie, it was devastating.Â
It felt huge, nothing like I had ever experienced before. Even though the architecture was beautiful, it was still a city; chaos interwoven with beauty. The buildings and walks were more reminiscent of the time I’d spent in Europe than what living in the United States felt like to me. For the first few nights away from family, this only made homesickness worse.
In just my first week, I got lost on a bus for three hours, making me late to my first orientation day, fell off the top bunk, and hit my head on the mini fridge. The following weeks weren’t much better. I froze, was injured, got sick, and failed multiple quizzes.Â
Day after day, week after week, this city has tried me. It pulls me to the brink, and when I think I am done, it shows me people riding bikes in protest, loops me into a funny conversation on the T, or worst of all, during my nighttime walks, charms me inexplicably.
The ache would almost be enough to make me want to go back home. I spent my first days longing for home, the warmth and sunny weather of Texas, playing George Strait or Tyler Childers on my phone, disappointed to be met with brick instead of grass. But I am pulled closer to Boston. I have come to swap my music for Rock or Blues. I have a proper coat, and what I believe are friends now.Â
Even now, a blizzard came and went, and yet for some reason, I am not afraid anymore. I seem to recognize this city as intimidating because it represents a version of me that is still moving and becoming. In between windows, restaurants, and arcades, I can see a future Alexa, laughing and eating with new loved ones, ones I have not yet met.Â
And so, though the process is slow, I can count on one thing: Even if part of me is broken down, it will be rebuilt.Â
Simply by being here in Boston, so far away.
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