Pure Michigan

It was a dark, cool night…

Once upon a time in a faraway land…

In West Michigan I was born and raised, on the beach is where I spent most of my days.  Chillin’ out max and relaxin’ all cool and playin’ volleyball at the side of the pool. 

I always find the start of a story to be the most difficult part to write.  How does one begin to narrate their own experiences in such a way that hooks an audience or pricks enough interest to make them continue reading?  It is similar to many action thrillers on the big screen. The first five minutes are relatively pointless scenes of heightened energy, daring escapes, over-exaggerated explosions and high speed chases that snag the viewer hook, line and sinker.  We are the fish, so easily baited.

But in order for you to understand my journey, you must understand its genesis. 

The New York Times recently posted an article showing that most Americans live within 18 miles of their parents.  I’m assuming this means that many adults live relatively close to the geographic location of their childhood, unless you’re one of the few that lives distant from your folks.  Close knit family.  Great local schools.  Economic restrictions.  Love of the community.  Whatever the reason, many people don’t drift too far from their roots. 

To be perfectly honest, I’m a bit jealous!  I wish I lived 18 miles from my family instead of 800.  I wish I could jump into the car and drive over for Sunday brunch.  I would prefer sitting on the floor playing with my niece or chasing her around the house than the daily 15 minutes of FaceTime.  I wish my partner and I could drive over to the homes of my brother or sister for game night or meet up at a local bar for drinks.  But I’m not one of the lucky ones.  Two to three times a year I get to spend a week with the people who are dearest to my heart.  I shouldn’t complain, though, because it is by my own choice…or is it?

Spending the vast majority of one’s life in a 10 to 50 mile radius is small.  Really small!  It is not a moral issue.  But it is limiting.  And in some cases, blinding. 

Our world is vast. Cultural differences are obvious when travelling internationally.  Italian culture is very different from Chinese culture which is very different from Sudanese culture which is very different from Chilean culture.  While traveling through Europe one would experience quick changes that are obvious.  Spain is very different from Germany.  The traveler must adjust and adapt.  It expands one’s worldview.

Traveling is a wonderful thing; it forces us out of our own norms and comforts.  But one does not need to cross the sea to experience this phenomenon.  The United States is extremely diverse.  Religion.  Ethnicity.  Sexuality.  Lifestyle.  Language. Cuisine.  Music.  The world intersects here, and it is beautiful.  If you have ever traveled from coast to coast, you are well aware that New York is very different from Chicago which is very different from San Francisco.  These urban metropolises are different from rural Iowa or the mountains of West Virginia. 

But if one lives their life in relative seclusion within the same fifty miles, they miss out on much of this.  And one can be duped into thinking that the rest of the country, and the rest of the world, operate in their framework or mindset or worldview.  Some understand, on varying levels, that people have different values and differing religious opinions and opposing political views.  But there is nothing quite like immersing yourself into the differences and forcing yourself to think and consider another’s view.  For many people, this doesn’t become a reality.  Their thoughts and opinions and beliefs and lifestyles become concrete, cement, incapable of being formed or molded or changed.  Instead of leading to healthy dialogue and debate and respect of differing opinions, this stubborn adherence often leads to prejudice and hatred.  

Differences aren’t always obvious.  Sometimes they are very subtle.  And sometimes they seem ridiculous.  Here is one simple example.  When I moved to Chicago, I realized that the pace of life was a lot faster than my suburban Midwestern town.  Things stayed open later.  There was a lot more traffic.  People seemed busier and in a hurry.  But when I moved to New York City, I realized that people in Chicago were very relaxed.  New York truly is the city that never sleeps.  And it’s the city that never sits still.  The pace of life is exhausting.  Relaxation is a luxurious commodity.  When I go to visit my family in the Midwest, it takes a bit of time to adjust to the slow-moving, almost molasses speed of life.  And I begin to admire the deep appreciation of life and family and nature and beauty. I find myself sitting in the hammock feeling guilty that I’m not running somewhere or doing something. Within a day I’m not thinking about what I need to do next or the quickest route to my destination or which train line might be delayed or which highway might be congested or how to avoid obnoxious tourists. Living in a metropolitan area of roughly 20 million people seems a world apart from a township of 10,000.  I learn to value simplicity again. 

 When I travel home, the first couple of nights seem so foreign.  The peace and quiet is haunting.  No horns or sirens or airplanes or helicopters or voices.  It is replaced with birds chirping and the buzz of insects.  At times, utter silence.  A student once said to me during her first year of college in Vermont, “I never realized silence could be deafening.  My own thoughts are so loud.”  But the silence is not only unfamiliar, the darkness is terrifying.  Truly.  It scares me.  No lights outside the bedroom window.  Few lights to illuminate the street. I forget the beauty of stars in the night sky. Darkness.  Sometimes so black that it hurts my eyes. 

Darkness.  Silence.  Pace of life.  These things are relatively trivial compared to religious beliefs or political opinion or the demographics of a neighborhood.  These are the things that become ingrained in people, often dictating our relationships with others and guiding our morality. 

I was one who spent the first eighteen years of life within the same secluded 50 miles.  This doesn’t account for the few trips that I took in those years, including trips to Florida, Texas, Colorado, and other U.S. states.  I even had the privilege of flying to Australia for two weeks.  But the vast majority of my early years was secluded. 

I grew up in Michigan.  Southwest Michigan to be exact.  For those of you who don’t know the trick, take your right hand and face the palm towards you.  Your thumb should be on the right, and notice, it looks like a mitten, or even better, the lower peninsula of Michigan.  You can use your left hand to make the entire state, but we won’t get that advanced for the beginners.  You would think I’m joking, but I have met many people on the East Coast who don’t know where Michigan is.  Some people ask me if it is close to Colorado and others think it is just a couple of hours drive to California.  No joke.  Serious.  #education #geography I suppose it is true that the sun rises and sets on the Empire State Building, for New Yorkers anyway. Back to the hand.  Use your left finger and point to the lower left side of your “mitten”, about an inch or an inch and a half from your wrist.  That’s where I was born and raised: a little town called Spring Lake, Michigan.

I’ll talk about my family and childhood in a later post, but I can truly say that I was blessed beyond measure.  I would fight to the death defending the premise that I have the greatest family on earth.  And I love, love the little town where I grew up.  I’ll try to give you the most concise picture as I can.

Spring Lake is a very middle class to upper-middle class community.  There is a select population that may fall below the poverty line and a few have abundant wealth, but the vast majority are working class families who live a relatively comfortable life, much like my own.  For the most part, it is very residential with a small “downtown” area with banks, small businesses and restaurants.  There are a couple of elementary schools, one middle school and one high school.  There is a police station and a fire station and a public library.  Neighboring Grand Haven is a hot spot for tourism, as is much of Western Michigan.  The beaches are beautiful!  Watersports rule the summer.  Kayaking.  Canoeing. Swimming. Boating. Waterskiing.  While walking the pier on a summer weekend, one could sit and watch speed boats and yachts cruising the channel to enjoy Lake Michigan for hours.  Ice cream.  Mini-golf.  Coastguard Festival. It’s a wonderful place to visit!

There is one resource that the community is not lacking: churches.  Protestant churches to be exact.  Evangelical protestant churches to be even more specific.  Welcome to the Bible belt! One wouldn’t have to drive far without seeing a church.  Presbyterian.  Wesleyan.  Methodist.  Catholic.  Baptist.  Lutheran.  Nondenominational.  They are all there.  Some congregations are relatively large, while some are very small. Though this is not true of all church-goers in the area, most hold a relatively “traditional” view of Scripture.  Biblical literalists.  Some may say, fundamentalists.  Conservative to say the least. 

The area is very white.  Caucasian, in case you were confused.  I probably could have counted on one hand, maybe two, the students in my high school who were not.  In the most recent times of visiting my family, I can truly say that the area is diversifying slightly.  Still, the vast majority of citizens are white.  Grand Rapids has more diversity, which is a mere forty minute drive.  Just twenty miles away is Muskegon and Muskegon Heights, cities with many more black and brown citizens. 

At least there is some political diversity.  Somehow I seemed to have been exposed to the much more Republican side of the aisle, probably as a result of being very involved with the church.  There are certainly people fall on the left of the spectrum, but I would classify it as a Republican area.  I remember when Clinton was running for president.  Bill.  Not Hillary.  This was before I was old enough to vote.  He assuredly had his supporters in county, but I was surrounded by those who thought Clinton was the anti-Christ.  OK, a little exaggerated, but there was certainly a disdain and dislike for his policies and political party.

It’s a pithy description.  Please forgive me.  Protestant.  White.  Middle Class.  Conservative.  Keep in mind that this is reflective of my experiences.  As with any village, town, or city, people can have different experiences that would shape their perception.  I’m sure some who read this who live in West Michigan disagree wholeheartedly with my description.  But this is how I view most of West Michigan, and much of the Midwest.

For most of my young adult years, I wasn’t forced to live outside of this lens.  I wasn’t forced to think outside of my own experience. I didn’t think outside of the “White experience”.  I didn’t think outside of my “Christian beliefs”.  I didn’t think outside of my “Middle class lifestyle.” I didn’t stare into the evil eyes of poverty.  I was blissfully unaware of the horrific truths of injustice.  My interactions with people of different ethnicities and religions were extremely limited.  I was surrounded by people who looked like me.  Thought like me.  Worshipped like me.  Talked like me. 

Every time that I am home with my family, we talk about the possibility of my moving back to West Michigan.  I’m always tempted, especially when I’ve spent the day on the beach.  My love of my family is strong enough to always make me reconsider.  But then I think about all that I have been exposed to since moving away.  People of all shades and colors.  People of all religious beliefs.  People of all socio-economic classes.  Such diversity.  The spectrum of the human experience. 

And then I start thinking about what my life might look like back in Spring Lake.  As faith remains a key aspect of my life, I question which church would accept me.  A homosexual?  Of course in New York there are those that oppose homosexuality, but there is a sense of normalcy around it.  There is community for me here.  It is possible for me to be Christian.  And to be gay.  Not to be hated or feared or disdained or chastised. People not trying to send me through conversion therapy or assign me a seat in Hell.  Christian brothers and sisters who celebrate Jesus with me and affirm my humanity.  People that recognize that there is more than one way of Christian thought.  Intellectual, Bible believing, thought provoking discussions.  And when we can’t agree, we can still be friends.

And what about my partner?  A black man.  How would his life be effected moving into a White neighborhood with such a lack of diversity?  How would people respond to the interracial couple?  How would people respond to the staunch democrat?  OK, I’ve never actually thought about the last one.  But the other questions are real things I ask myself when I consider moving home. 

And then the consideration becomes a vapor, vanished into the realm of dreams and fantasies.  Not reality.  Instead, I relish the memories.  I cherish the time with my family.  I enjoy visiting, but it will not be home. 

West Michigan will always have a piece of my heart.  It will always have a tug on me.  I will always fight back tears when I pull out of the family driveway.  I will always experience some element of homesickness missing my family.  There will always be a fruitless discussion about me returning “home”. It will always be a part of my life.  Without it, I would not be the person that I am today.  It helped to shape me. And for that, I am forever grateful. 

Me.  A permanently displaced Michigander.