Saturday, October 3, 2020

Twenty Years a Chicagoan

. . . twenty years and two days ago, on October 1st, 2000, I loaded up a U-haul in my old hometown of Bloomington, IN, having spent most of the previous 5 years as a Michigander, living in Kalamazoo.

So I am 20 years a Chicagoan. The writer in me wants to reflect on this whole time and find a way to sum up "what it all means." I'm not sure I'm really there yet, but I do know that I love living in this great city, even with all the trials and tribulations that come with it. It was here that I met the love of my life, became a dog person, had a child, crashed out of the improv comedy scene, became a teacher, went on strike, found a community where I feel at home, paid thousands of dollars in parking tickets, rode tens of thousands of miles on bike lanes, strung together a ten year run at the Speakeasy Cabaret, acquired a nickname, was technically labelled a scofflaw (parking tickets), got booted twice, protested the Iraq War, got assaulted on a late night Red Line, paraded through town with drunken Santas, bought a house, had two bikes stolen, celebrated Obama's first victory, and came into full adulthood . . . in no particular order.

I have lived here far longer than any other place, almost half my life. (And more than half if you include the 3-4 years I spent living in the burbs in the early '80's.) I was not born and raised in the city, but my daughter was and will be. Even after twenty years, I am cautious to claim it, as many born-and-raised Chicagoans bristle when people born elsewhere "claim to be from Chicago." Probably I'll die in this city, and that will be okay with me. I love this city and it's people, and it's been a marvelous twenty years. I feel like I should eat some really good but fairly cheap restaurant food, just to celebrate. (If you're not from Chi, this city is the World Champion of fairly cheap eats.)

Thanks everyone.

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