When I was a kid I would fantasize that I was adopted. I was the child of two cash-strapped grad students who had given me up so they could...
When I was a kid I would fantasize that I was adopted. I was the child of two cash-strapped grad students who had given me up so they could finish their dissertations. This couple—he was an English professor by now, probably, she an artist—lived in a big brick house covered in ivy. It was packed full of books. One January, while drinking wine by the fire, they would finally have that tough conversation, the one where they would discuss their long-lost daughter and wonder where she’d ended up. She’d be about, what, 10 now? 11? The professor would set down his wine and take his wife’s hand.
So we were all in agreement, then. The middle of the country was not the place for me.
Among those of us who grew up where the tallest building tops out at three stories, there are the people who left and the people who stayed. For the moment, let’s not concern ourselves with the ones who stayed, though they are a fascinating lot. Let’s talk about those of us who decamp to the sparkle of the coasts, of the cities. Those of us who decide to seek our fortunes among other people who vote for Democrats and eat sushi and don’t want to get married until we’re juuuust about ready to start having kids.\n