Educated in a small town,
Taught to fear Jesus in a small town,
Used to daydream in that small town,
Another boring romantic, that’s me.
- -John Mellencamp
Growing up in a small town was one of the most positive things to happen to me, and that remains true through today. I lived in a small town the first 17 years of my life. And though I haven’t lived in one permanently since, the influence of those years has never left. As I age, the desire to return to a small town and never leave only grows stronger. I can’t even say that I still love the particular small town I grew up in. I can say, however, I still love the notion of living in a small town. I love the sensibility and the idea and the pace and security it offers. I love that everything is scaled down, and that there’s much less chance of being exposed to unrelenting examples of excessiveness.
Still, I get that a good many people who grew up in a small town perish the thought of ever having to go back. I understand the complaints about how confining a small town is, about how a small town can pigeonhole a person, about how a small town provides fewer opportunities, and about how reputations can be gained unfairly and allowed to run amok. I understand how a small town can label a person without much justification and then isolate and segregate that person. I understand how some people feel trapped, alone, stranded, and misunderstood in a small town. I can relate to the feeling that it’s difficult to reinvent yourself in a small town. I especially understand the sense that “no one understands me here” that can come from living in a small town.
When I was growing up in a small town, I completely understood the kids who declared, “I can’t wait to get out, and when I do, I’m not coming back.” I understood because I shared the feeling. I did want out. I didn’t intend on going back. I didn’t think a small town could give me what I needed. Hell, for the longest time, I sunk way too many hours awake at night dreaming of being a music writer who would drink himself to happiness or torment, whichever came first, all surrounded by the wonderfully sinister trappings only a big city could extend.
That was a teenager’s dream, though. The more years that separate me from that kid, the more I realize how fortunate I was to have enjoyed my childhood and how positive of an influence it was throughout the rest of my life. I’ve come to realize that a lot of the notions I felt true of a small town are also true of a big city. I learned, for example, a person can be labeled and judged and stereotyped no matter where he lives. I learned a big city can provide avenues of opportunity, but if you don’t possess the skill or talent or attitude, it doesn’t matter. I’ve learned that a small town can isolate, but it can also liberate.
Looking back, I value that I not only knew every kid’s name in my class but also in my entire town. It made me a more attentive, compassionate being. I value the freedom I had to walk the streets at midnight without fear. It made me put a higher value on liberty and freedom. I value having been able to listen to trains moan off in the distance out of an open window without anything interrupting the serenade. It taught me to sit in stillness and just appreciate and wonder and imagine. I value having been able to ride my bike into the country and swim in the creeks with my friends, pick green apples, or just sit for hours and stare at a fishing pole with no urgency to be somewhere else. It taught me to be content.
I think most of all I value having experienced what it means to have a true sense of being home, of having a place that felt right. That’s the allure of a small town that sticks with me: being home, going home, feeling at home, feeling at peace.
I don’t know if I’ll die in a small town, but the idea is appealing.
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