Today marks the 16th anniversary of my arrival to Chicago. I'm usually terrible with dates. I have to set up calendar alerts to remind me of birthdays and anniversaries or risk missing them entirely. This is especially the case with all of the anniversaries I share with The Mister. There's the day we met, the first time we had a commitment ceremony, the day we had a legal wedding ... and the list goes on. As a former history major, The Mister has a wonderful knack for dates. After missing a couple of our key dates and feeling like a major heel, I've started keeping track lest The Mister decide he doesn't want to share those anniversaries with me any more.
There are two ways I'm able to remember that I first moved to Chicago on August 31, 1997. First, it's my dad's birthday. (Since I've known them all my life, I can always remember my parent's birthdays.) As for remember that it was on his birthday in 1997 that I moved here, well, there's a slightly more macabre reminder for that. As I stuffed my cat into her carrier and set off with all my life's possessions in my tiny Honda Civic early that morning, I watched the news in shock as they announced Princess Diana's death. I was so swept up in my rush to start my road trip that I only briefly watched the news clips about the Princess's death while I washed down a quick breakfast with some hot coffee. At rest stops on my journey west, I would see newspapers and TV screens announcing the shocking news. I remember commenting that morning, "Well, now I'll always remember when the day I moved."
When I first arrived in Chicago I was an idealistic 22-year-old with a lot of expectations and a myopic world view centered solely on myself. In the lead up to my move, as I packed up my old apartment in Columbus and anticipated the new life I would create for myself, I imagined that I would quickly establish myself in some sort of artistic job. I envisioned being spending my days in cool loft office spaces and then going home to one of those apartments that only in sitcoms.
Of course, life didn't shake out like that at all. I lived in shitty apartments and held down entry level jobs. I was impatient that find the elusive "dream job" but I never doubted my decision to move here. From the day I arrived in Chicago, I knew that this was home. It just felt right. Having grown up in small towns in Indiana and Ohio, Chicago represented the land of opportunity for me. And, thanks to the stupidity of youth, I was confident that everything would work out for me here. While my dreams didn't immediately materialize, I was confident of one thing: this city was my best chance to live the life I'd always wanted.
It took awhile but things did work out for me. I met The Mister a couple of years after I moved here. And, over the past fourteen years together, we have had some pretty incredible adventures - personal, professional and everything in between. I undoubtedly would have experienced adventures no matter where I ended up living but I'm grateful for the ones that this city has given me. I'm also eternally thankful that I was in the right bar at the right time on January 16, 1999, so that I would bump into The Mister and have my life forever altered.
At this point, I've lived in Chicago longer than I've lived anywhere else. This is home to me now. I wasn't born here but if you ask me I am a Chicagoan. I've spent almost my entire adult life here. I know the streets better here than anywhere else. I know the people and the weird weather patterns and I can tell you about how much the neighborhoods have changed and what you used to be on this or that corner.
Happy anniversary, Chicago. Thanks for feeling like home.
Image: Jason Loper
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