Born, bred and hailing from St. Louis, MO, you don't realize how you lived until you leave the life you once, well, lived. Here's my story.
Flying in from Atlanta one late afternoon, I breeze off the plane. I slide my D&G shades up from over my deprived eyes and gaze around the gate's waiting area. The dimly lit arena of awating people gazed at or around me, wondering when it would be time to board the plane. I stride past them, up the ramp, down the ramp, around the corner and to the baggage claim. I slip my shades back on and plug in the left headphone from my iPod into my ear. Trying to look as physically unavailable as possible, I shot short glances around me, not turning my head at all but shifting my eyes left to right. I caught confused gazes of people around me, mostly wearing grey, bright orange or some sort of Disney cartoon character adorned on their shirts. I look down at my attire, wearing a crisp button-down blouse with pearl earrings, fitted jeans and stiletto boots. Somehow I felt a bit out of place.
Fast forward to the next morning. I had to awaken early before my junket to Chicago to go to the DMV to get my new tags for my (still) Missouri license plates. I walk in to the place where I've been so many times before-- where my friends co-oped during high school, where I got my permit papers; how about where I picked up my first set of personalized plates and even where I submitted the paperwork to get my car registered in the first place. I walk in and take a number from the little red dispenser that always looks like its sticking its tounge out at you. Moderately crowded, I walk over to the far side of the space and find a seat next to an old man. I look down at the chairs first to make sure I didn't get anything on my soft white-linen capris, or anything to wrinkle my crisp button down shirt. I glance over my shoulder and catch people staring at me-- and again feeling awkward, I slink down a little in my chair and await until my number is called.
Looking around the DMV brought back and showed me so many things that I had forgotten. The little things like a person's name carved out of a block of wood, clearly laqured and on display for all to see. How about the faded poster of some movie that came out ten years ago, and never have I seen so many different forms of an eagle in all my life. The section of the wall dedicated to the offspring of the employees, the offspring of the offspring of the employees, sisters, cousins, neighbors: all with cute little callouts and cheesy grins of proud mamas and sleeping paw-paws in the lazyboy. The section where awards given out by the local high schools for a collaboration on a Co-Op program mandated in 1998 and before, the angel figurines, the orange carpet, the imitation wood paneling, the dingy white paint and every employee with a horizontal stripped t-shirt, denimn Lee Jeans shorts and a pair of off-white Reeboks to set the mood.This, right here ladies and gentlemen, used to be MY world. The khaki pants, the K-Swiss tennis shoes, no makeup, no heels, no problem. I'm from St. Louis. This is what we look like. What we wear. What we represent. Isn't it? Right?
In all my times in being back in this city, never have I EVER felt so out of place. So now the question is, what do I now call "Home"?
