Past Lives
As a New Yorker, Angeleno, and other reincarnation iterations...
Before unraveling the tapestry of events that landed my little family in the capital city of a state whose elevation taps out at 800 feet, it may be useful for us to explore where I came from and how we all came together.
I was born in the mid-1980s at the Manhattan hospital that was ground zero for the AIDS crisis. While the hospital is now high-end condos (may we all bow down to the Capitalist machine), it is listed as one of the NYC LGBT Historic Sites. This is only relevant in that there’s some weird family lore that I am a reincarnated Lower East Side gay man who died of AIDS and I feel like that’s both an interesting anecdote and a truly insane thing to claim, but either way, worth casually jotting down here. My parents moved to the North Jersey suburbs when I was a small child, had two more kids, eventually bought a minivan, and settled in a stereotypical upper middle class enclave for people who act like they live in Manhattan, but actually live in New Jersey.
For a long time (and maybe still now?) my entire identity was being a New Yorker. Yes, I know I grew up in New Jersey. But hey, at this point call me a New Jersey apologist. It was nice! It was less than 10 miles from Manhattan! The Sopranos is high art! Sure, New Jersey is not New York, but also… tomato tomato. (Please read that in a New York accent).
Back in 2008, after I graduated from my little upstate liberal arts college (quaint!), I waited tables at a tiny Italian restaurant on St. Marks Place and shared a matchbox of an apartment in the East Village with my childhood best friend. I auditioned for plays and went to psychics and sometimes woke up in Brooklyn. I ran into people I knew everywhere. My boss called me the Mayor because I always knew someone walking by; I was living in a city full of people I went to elementary school with, people I went to college with, people I went to Broadway-feeder sleepaway theatre camp with. I did constantly run into people I knew. But also, everyone knew me, or already had some idea of who I was, and I was starting to realize that I didn’t know me. (bing bong, cliché of the century: twenty-three year old woman needs to learn about herself, goes to California).
So, in 2010, I moved to Los Angeles with a boyfriend, shortly thereafter found myself single and alone far from everyone I grew up with, and forced myself to be brave and stay. This tethered me to the birds of paradise, the cracks in the sidewalks, the books on the shelves at Skylight, the outside table at the Deli at Little Doms (RIP Deli, you were the tits), & the overgrown path up the front of the mountain in Griffith Park. You could say I found myself by losing myself, but dear god, please don’t. Instead, let’s just say I got through the rough part of my twenties and came out with a little bit of an idea of the kind of person that I’d like to be.
In 2017, when I met my now husband, we bonded over a shared feeling of being different from the people we grew up with, our ambivalence toward organized religion, and a fascination with Phoebe Bridgers. When we became parents, I fell back into some weird ideas of what family needed to be, lost myself again, and have been digging around in the back of my closet for a couple of years now trying to unearth the pieces of a woman that I had previously formed into a whole person. (At this point, I think I have found the shirt and shoes, but I’m still missing bottoms.)
Which, finally, brings me to Jackson. When you have a small child, any three day trip by yourself is a gift. A plane flight alone is a vacation. A friends’ guest room might as well be the Ritz, and three days to explore a new city with the sole purpose of seeing the best it has to offer, well that’s just a cherry on top of a no-parenting sundae. So, in retrospect, it’s possible that my first impressions of Jackson, Mississippi were skewed.
When I visited for the first time in July of last year, I was charmed by its tall, tree-lined streets, by its historic homes and family-friendly businesses. I was allured by the idyllic suburban experience that mirrored my own childhood but was available at a much lower price tag. I wouldn’t have to sell my soul to an 80 hour a week job in NYC to afford an old, big house with a sprawling green lawn here. I could simply sell my LA condo and come on down!
I specifically wanted to visit in the summer so that I could see the South at its worst. It’s notoriously hot and humid here, that’s, like, what it’s known for. That and racism. And Jesus. But I digress. Because the three days I was in town were perfect. The humidity was kind of… not so bad… and the temps topped out in the low eighties. It was absolutely misleading. I got off the plane and our friends drove me directly to an outdoor bar in the center of what would later become my neighborhood. At this place, the bartender wore cutoff jean shorts, had a little nose ring, and was adorned in tattoos. It could have been Silver Lake. I was shocked. Maybe it wasn’t weird and religious and repressed here, maybe people were edgy and fun! Had I been entirely stereotypical in my preconceived notions of this place? Also, there was a GREEN SPACE with children PLAYING next to the bar. I could live here, simply have drinks each day and let my child run free, barefoot with the throngs of blonde children in Mary Janes. Oh… wait a second. Why were there so many blonde children? Why were they all dressed like little dolls? Ignore that! Have another glass of Orange Wine. ORANGE WINE? In Mississippi? Maybe this place really is — oh, that wine is terrible, can I have a margarita? What was I saying about blonde children? Never mind.
When I returned home from my jaunt down to the City of Soul, I was eager to report that I actually really liked it. I fantasized about digging in to a new place to once again find an updated version of myself. Like the young woman who landed in California all those years ago and was able to shed her harsh New York exoskeleton, learn how to be vulnerable, and get a year-round tan, I could shift yet again. What awaited me here? Would I learn to garden? Could I take up pottery? What kind of art would I make if I wasn’t so stressed out about money?
Or… would I be swallowed whole by the army of women with Dyson airwrap perfect blonde hair in their floral maxi dresses and realize, once again, that being in a small community where the idea of happiness and success is defined by one very specific type of person is a terrible life choice for someone like me?