Moving: A Personal Essay

Moving

Baltimore, this place won't let me leave. But I refuse to stay here.

My mother, sisters, and I tried Florida years ago. It didn't work out. Moving from a major city to one of the panhandle's smallest towns was too difficult. My mom couldn't get a good job, and I couldn't make friends. My sisters managed better than the two of us but weren't happy either, so we moved back to our corner row home in Highlandtown.

Then I was supposed to move to Los Angeles and live with my dad after finishing middle school. My parents desperately needed to split the parental duties. I was excited to go, imagining how things would be different and interesting. But before I could leave with my dad, my mother insisted that the two of us talk—really talk. So we did. And then we didn't talk again for another two years. So my sisters took my place and moved to L.A. with my dad. They tried their best to live with him in a strange situation, but after just one year they needed to come back.

Other opportunities for me to leave this stinkin' crab cake came and went. I trained in Phoenix for an auto claims job and probably could have managed to move there, or to Austin, TX. That would have been sumthin'! But I needed to lose that job, so I could find one that better suited me and also get my butt back into school. "Ugh, Towson, two and a half more years," I thought at the time.

Now, I'm the last one here. April moved to Pasadena, CA, is married, and has a son. She's a writer too. Erin moved to Phoenix coincidentally, is engaged, and also has a son—his middle name Jan is named after me. My mom was stubborn to leave. She's an artist with a factory-worker mentality, like her dad who worked in the steel mill. I eventually convinced her to retire and move down to Florida to live with her family. That was one of the best things I've ever done for her.

My dad says when you want to leave, you just go! And when you get to the new place, you'll figure things out. His advice often seems crazy to me, but he's the smartest man I know.

My parents did it together—they moved from D.C. to The Windy City. My father went to the Art Institute of Chicago. My mom worked. The judge called my dad a "freeloader" in the courthouse where they got married. I was born there in 1977 during one of the worst blizzards on record. They eventually moved to Baltimore after my dad graduated art school. I was 2.

My cousin Seth did it—moved east and west: Boulder, Annapolis, Fells Point, Frederick, and then back to Boulder where he says he'll likely stay permanently. He's an X-ray tech and also an artist. One of his ideas was to cut up plush toys and sow the parts back together mismatched. His weirdness inspires me.

My friend Kristina did it—moved from Idaho to South Carolina to Pittsburgh then to Baltimore and finally to Anchorage, AK. I visited her in The Last Frontier in August, 2013. I was surprised how quickly she set up and had things going on: friends, jobs, activities, and school. Her confidence is contagious. I wasn’t sure I could handle changing from how things started out with us to just being friends, but I'm glad I did. She opened my eyes.

What is a different place? Is it the scenery? Is it the people? Is it the economics?

At night in Arizona, the temperature goes down. The air is cool. Heat radiates off of objects that have baked in the sun all day. It feels stimulating.

In L.A., every day is the same—sunny—70°. But traffic sucks!

Florida has everything I need. I guess. But it doesn't inspire me.

Colorado has mountains. They're beautiful! I like seeing them off in the distance. I feel excitement in places with mountains. While driving to the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska, Kristina and I pulled over to the side of the highway and filled water bottles from a spout gushing out from the side of a mountain. It was melted snow water. That was refreshing!       

Should I pick a place to move to just because I like freakin' mountains?

That's the plan—Colorado! As soon as I'm done at Towson . . . .

But I need help dealing with the thoughts of this move, so I'm taking those pills again. They make the voice in my head sound a little bit smarter—more helpful. I imagine going back in the past and playing the role of my father to myself when I was 13. I tell that kid, "Stand up straight, tell those boys to shut the fuck up, and kiss any girl you want to."

Ya, things are a little calmer on the pills—easier. Baltimore gets a bad rap. People here are smart. The city is growing. There are jobs. There are single women. We won two Superbowls.
Are people smiling at me because I'm smiling back, or is it the other way around? Two gorgeous women approached me at a pub the other night. One took my number, the other gave me hers. That probably won't go anywhere, but it's promising.

Springtime is coming. You can't beat Charm City in the springtime. That first sip of beer at Camden Yards whispers, "Welcome back buddy." Downtown comes to life. I can sit on Federal Hill and watch boats move around in the harbor for hours.

Always, it tries to fool me. Once I build up the courage to leave, things get better where I am, and I'm never really sure if I should go.

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