When I was growing up, I would always tell people I was born in Seattle. I had this innate need to be different and cooler than everyone else, and the West Coast was definitely more special than the Midwest town from which I was born and raised. But it didn’t feel like a lie.
Have you ever felt so connected to a place you never really belonged to? That’s Seattle for me.
My parents lived there while they went to grad school at the University of Washington in their 20s. They got married, packed up their lives in South Carolina, and road-tripped across the country to their new destination. Neither had lived on the West Coast before that, nor would they again. It was a blip in the matrix, so why does it occupy so much of my thoughts?
I went for the first time when I was 3 years old for a wedding. That trip is the very first memory I have. I vividly remember what our rental house looked like; seeing my grandma in her light blue robe making us breakfast; singing “Living on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi, but accidentally saying “Living Upstairs” instead (this became a family joke in the subsequent years); my temporary pink bike with training wheels adorned with roses; my brother almost riding his bike off the side of a cliff, only to be saved by my Dad; going to the Space Needle and the mini carnival/theme park surrounding it; a trip to a pool with my cousins, aunt and uncle. Sometimes I think that I made these memories up—that they came to me in a dream and seemed so real that I just committed them to memory. But my parents have corroborated. Seattle was just that important. It was crucial.
It feels like I existed there in a previous life, beyond just my few trips there. My ache to go back rattled me enough that senior year of high school I applied to my parent’s alma mater for undergrad. They didn’t even have the major I wanted, I just longed for the Puget Sound and the Public Market and Mount Rainier. I think, if I decide to go to grad school, I’ll reapply. Or I’ll find a job there. I think it would be antagonistic to my character if I didn’t try in some capacity.
I guess I won’t ever know if I’d be doing it for myself or to chase some pipe dream of understanding who my parents were before I came along; to gain context for how I ended up here, with this life and these experiences. It must relate back to some time before my existence; some natural phenomenon of life.
I’m not sure how common a feeling this is—for someone to have their own Seattle. Maybe it’s a person or time for you. Maybe it’s a feeling. As humans, there’s always something we’re chasing. I think the only real question is if it’s worth it. I hope it is. I hope I reach Seattle.
No Comments.