My family’s all from the south. Living in rural Kentucky, a town with a single schoolhouse and miles upon miles of pastures. A rowdy bunch clad in plaid and boot leg jeans. Deeply tan with rounded beards and bright blue eyes. Who grew up on farms of green fields, rolling hills dotted with cattle and open skies that stretch as far as the horizon. People who eat nothing but cajun fried catfish, buttery iron mill grits, and charred collard greens. Who tip their hats to old women and who say things like, “yes ma'am” or “yessup”. Now consider how I grew up: in the frigid streets of Philadelphia. Where people wore darkly colored hoodies, ripped leggings, and large headphones. Who were pale from hours spend avoiding the unfathomable winter chill that never seemed to leave. Where skyscrapers seemed to block the sky and trash littered the streets. No one said “yes ma’m” and you were lucky if you got so much as a nod. And yet, I wouldn’t have grown up anywhere else. I may love cajun catfish and rolling pastures as much as my family but the graffiti covered city has a soft spot in my heart, and will forever be my home.
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