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Two places I get to call my own

Belonging to Two Places

Funny timing: I wrote this piece, a love letter to my hometown, earlier this week. It was before the attack at my home synagogue yesterday. Thank goodness everyone, including all my people, are safe. So much of my love for Michigan stems from its tight-knit Jewish community. If you don’t know what to say about this horrific news, I’ll tell you, like I’ll tell you to drink water: say that you stand up to Jewish hate. And send your love and allyship to the whole Jewish community.

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Hi friends,

The other week, someone called me a transplant. It hit me in a funny way, considering I’ve lived in New York City for 23 years.

This June will mark an exact split: half my life in Michigan, where I grew up, and half in New York City, where I moved one year after college. I’ll never claim Native New Yorker status (my walk-to-the-beat-of-their-own-drum kids do, but not me.) I do think 23 years earns me some status. I’ll also say this clearly: my teams are squarely in Detroit. Go Pistons, Go Lions, Go Tigers, Go Red Wings, Forever Go Blue.

It’s 2003, and I am packing up the U-Haul in the driveway of the suburban home I grew up in. Everyone in Michigan was excited about my big-city adventure, but no one was thrilled to see me go. I hugged a then 3-year-old nephew who asked why I had to move to “You Nork.” I promised my grandma I’d call every day. I did, from the walk to the subway to the high school where I worked, every single day. I would get into trouble if I didn’t. She was that kind of grandma.

My dad and I made the 10-ish hour drive along I-80, hitting traffic on the last stretch. I remember the curve into the Holland Tunnel and thinking: holy shit, I’m actually doing this. The weekend was full of first-apartment errands: buying an eggplant-colored couch, many trips to Bed Bath and Beyond, all of it in the rain. There was a final dinner and a very tearful goodbye. And then (this was before texting or location tracking), even though we’d already said goodbye the night before, my dad showed up at my apartment for one last hug. We’d missed each other because I was traveling to his hotel to do the same. We talked again, tearfully, from the airport.

Now, 23 years later, I can say I never could have predicted any of it. That my 23-year-old teacher-in-the-Bronx self would still be here, with a community, a husband, a couple of kids, a whole career, including a chain of pizzerias. I guess that’s what happens when a place gets into you.

And two places got into me.

Things I love about New York:

The way the whole city comes alive on the first warm day (t-shirts, iced coffees, huge smiles — it happened this week!). The way I can hop over to a concert or Broadway show anytime I want. Public crying, perfectly acceptable, and you won’t get looked at twice. Fast walking as the norm. Ripped jeans and ballgowns as the dress code for the same event. Grand Central Station, especially that secret arch where you can whisper across the room. The Christmas tree stands on every corner (yes, it’s like a postcard that time of year). The subway, sometimes stinky, [almost] always running. The food (even a simple burger or spaghetti and meatballs is better here than almost anywhere). And the people, the people, the people, especially the ones I get to call my own.

Things I love about Michigan:

The slow walk. The water (big lakes, small lakes, all of it). How you can jump on somebody’s boat almost anytime you want. Detroit bagels: slightly smaller, crunchier on the outside. Vernors. Greek salads. Coney Island. (Lafayette, of course.) The way spring arrives looking like neon green and smelling like dirt. Ann Arbor, forever and always. How, same as New York, everyone loses their minds on the first warm day. Fifty degrees and everyone is laying out on the Diag with huge smiles in shorts. The softer, slower energy the rest of the time. Summer thunderstorms. “Up North,” with cherry stands and water as blue as the Caribbean. Like I said, you can pry my sports teams out of my cold, dead hands. And how if one of the kids in my family is playing a tee-ball game, half the fans in the stands are there for them. All of which is to say: my family, my family, my family.

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I’ve probably taken the Delta flight from LGA to DTW a hundred times. Easy flight. Always worth it. In fact, I’m taking it tomorrow.

You can take the girl out of Michigan. You know the rest.

xx, Leah