My hometown’s greatest claim to fame is a water tower. On the red and white-striped tank, it proudly reads “Florence Y’all.” This was a cheap way to cover up that it used to say “Florence Mall,” which was illegal because you can’t advertise a private business on a public water tower. Growing up, I sometimes wished that they had never changed it. I hated the word “y’all” and any form of improper grammar. I associated it with a lack of education—even if I was from Kentucky, I was darn well going to be educated.
I associated culture and sophistication with places like New York City, and I was able to convince my mom to take me there when I was eight. My mom has never been one for cities, and she recounts plenty of mishaps from that trip. I don’t remember those as much as I remember ice skating, Wicked, and the Times Square M&M Store. From that point on, I viewed my hometown as an inconvenient pit stop on the way to the city lights. After all, my family had one person run away to New York per generation, and my Uncle Josh loved it there. However, he never told fellow urbanites he was from Kentucky but rather Cincinnati, the nearby big city in Ohio. I had always wondered why.
A month ago, I looked out over the NYC skyline from a finance building in Jersey City. As I made my way through my company-provided bagel, I began to understand Uncle Josh. How could people that lived in a place like this begin to understand a place like Florence? They wouldn’t find our water tower impressive. I felt so big as I stared across the Hudson; I was worried I wouldn’t fit on the plane back home.
Upon arriving back in Kentucky, this instinct proved partially right. I was disappointed when my search for cute cafes recommended Speedway as the best nearby coffee, and I mourned how much time I spent behind the wheel to get anywhere. As I drove around, my hometown felt different. Empty fields had been replaced by senior living centers. While the same weathered political signs dotted the side of the road, the road itself had an extra lane. What little affinity I felt for the nature of my hometown faded.
As I have tried to explain to my NYC and international friends, the Kentucky mind has Stockholm Syndrome when it comes to the highways. My only coping mechanism back home was to just drive. The mountains of Appalachia slowly began to emerge on the horizon. They are old and rounded. Their weathering adds to their grandeur, and I felt so small in their shadow. As I recounted this feeling to my friend, he responded, “I don’t feel small. I feel one.” Perhaps my one place isn’t NYC or Florence or deep in the mountains. But god, I know I will keep running and driving and moving until I find it.
