In Praise of Falling in Love with Your City

Oh, Chicago, why have I withheld my love from you?

Have you ever heard comedian Tig Notaro talk about her hometown of Pass Christian, Mississippi?

Or read what writer-poet-cultural critic-national treasure Hanif Abdurraqib has to say about Columbus, Ohio?

Or read Jerry Seinfeld on New York City? Lidia Yuknavitch on Portland, Oregon?

What all these folks have in common is an ardent love for their cities. Every time I’ve encountered it, I’ve felt a kick of longing. A quiet I want to love like that flickers through my thoughts.

Recently, I heard Notaro on Seth and Josh Meyers’ podcast Family Trips. In the episode, she enthused about the beach, the bookstore-cafe, and the laid-back vibe in Pass Christian, the town where she grew up. Before the episode was over, I texted my brother in New Orleans to request a day trip to Pass Christian— only an hour away from The Big Easy— when we visit at Thanksgiving.

I want to adore my town as much as Notaro adores hers— I kept thinking hours after I’d finished the podcast. She loves it! Her wife loves it! Her kids love it! A physical sensation deep in my chest accompanied that thought. I know that feeling: longing.

Irrationally, the next sensation was anger at my husband for the high crime of not being madly in love with his hometown of Los Angeles. When we first started dating, I’d grill him about seeing celebrities at Chateau Marmont or being in The Price is Right audience or losing his virginity on a Malibu beach, and he’d stare back at me like What are you talking about?

Fine, he couldn’t tell me jackshit about Bob Barker’s hair, but where was his passion for LA? How were our kids going to learn how to make HOME or A PLACE beloved if he didn’t model it? Who was going to teach our kids what it means to love a particularly wacky intersection or a faded mom-and-pop diner or a daffy local meteorologist who’s been predicting rain since Watergate?

I guess it has to be me.

The problem with tasking me with enthusiasm for place is that I’ve made being on the outside of things part of my identity. Critical distance is my love language. I’m too busy counting all the ways I don’t fit in to let love bloom. This habit was most pronounced in college when I was busy wishing I was at the other state university— the one in Austin that I didn’t apply to. I harped on all of the shortcomings of Texas A&M, never balancing the criticism with appreciation. You know the adage Bloom where you are planted? I leaned more toward Be gloomy about where you landed. This critical stance was designed to make sure you knew I was smart, that I was in on the joke, that nothing got by me. And it blocked me from so much love and joy— for people, for myself, and for the places I lived.

But people can change, right? That’s why we go to therapy and train for 5k races. We can transform into different, better versions of ourselves.

I’m experimenting with becoming a person who really loves Chicago, the city I’ve called home since 1998. Luckily, I made this decision in June when the sun drenches us in light for 15 hours a day and riots of blooms have exploded on every median and front porch. Plus, I already loved its bookstores, Metra train, art fairs, the lakefront, and the theater scene. I also gave myself permission to acknowledge the city’s many shortcomings— police violence against Black folks, a long history of political corruption, food deserts, poverty, gun violence, educational inequities, and potholes you could drown in— but to let the love run right alongside all that.

As I’ve opened my heart wider to Chicago, I’ve found myself positively enchanted. On Thursday, I drove my kid to the United Center during the golden hour, and the blue-line el tracks along 290 have never been more luminous. On my route home, I pulled over to admire the majesty of the skyscraper formerly known as the Sears Tower. During my Friday morning run, the purple alliums in Washington Park seemed to salute me along Cottage Grove. Tomorrow, I will meet my friends for a 5-mile run on the Lake, and we will pass dozens of runners, bikers, and strollers. The vibe will be friendly; I know this because it’s been true for the three decades I’ve been a Chicago runner. The water fountain at the 53rd Street overpass will pump out cold water, and the bathrooms at both 50th and 39th will be open for the summer season. My daughter and I will have dinner at Cafe Lula, which just won a James Beard award. In two weeks, I’ll binge-watch Season 3 of The Bear, and I will scream with glee when I recognize familiar Chicago landmarks, just like I did through Seasons 1 and 2.

Chicago absolutely teems with reason to love it. How has it taken me this long to notice how much it means to me?

The long overdue Season of Love has begun.