B-Rant

- submitted by D. Philyaw on 08/05/2008

  

To the 'Burbs and Back, or Why We Left the City -- For A While

By Deesha Philyaw

Picture it: Brooklyn, 1994. In the midst of winter thaw, unmarked potholes are prolific. Late one Friday night, I'm driving home alone along a poorly lit stretch of Flatbush Avenue comprised of more holes than solid street. So it's not surprising when my front tire falls into one and pops. It's the last straw -- I burst into tears. I hate this city.

I hate that even if I survive Dial-a-Bureaucracy on Monday, there's no one in this city who actually gives a shit about my tire, my inconvenience, or my safety.

Just a week earlier, I'd been nearly broadsided at an intersection by one of New York's Finest as she sped through a red light, no siren. On that day, I'd been driving out to Bushwick in search of needle and thread (I drove because I hated the subway).

When I finally made it to the Woolworth's, I drove around for half an hour in search of a parking space that was in the same zip code as the store and didn't require me to double-park. "Is a freaking parking lot too much to ask?" I screamed to no one in particular before driving back home, needle-and-thread-less, once again in tears. This was just more proof, in a long line of proof, that I was not cut out for life in the big city.

So when a job offer afforded my then-husband, Mike, the opportunity to leave ridiculous hours on Wall Street and to relocate to his native Pittsburgh, it was a no-brainer. Instead of crying, I belly-laughed when we were nearly broadsided by a speeding idiot who blew through a stop sign as we followed the moving truck out of the parking lot of our final city apartment (this one in Stamford, CT).

Mike had grown up in the northern suburbs of Pittsburgh, so that's where we settled. Our first stop was an apartment overlooking one of the area's biggest malls, where I had my choice of hundreds of parking spaces and all the needle and thread I could carry. Traffic was a bear, but on any given day, I was likely to be the most aggressive driver on the road (sue me: complete detox from NYC driving takes at least a year).

A few years later, we bought our first home, traveling even further north of the city. My recollection of those early years of suburban life is pretty uneventful. In fact, when I think back on that time, I can barely remember the names of my neighbors, but I do have lots of memories of commerce and consumption. The first Quizno's in the area, the first Bravo!, a new Kinko's, the day the local grocery store chain added a made-to-order sushi bar, routine trips to Wal-Mart, the appearance of the celestial entity known as the Krispy Kreme store. The arrival of the first Target was a Major Moment.

I also recall being obsessed with my lawn. Finally, finally we had a green space all our own, a place for our daughter, Taylor, to frolic and catch fireflies and pursue all manner of Mayberry type activities. But damn if yard maintenance wasn't a full-time job!

Mike spent all of his time either intending to cut the grass, being nagged by me to cut the grass, or preparing to cut the grass when what I really needed him to do was take Taylor off my hands and give me a much-needed break.

Finally, when our grass was the longest in the entire subdivision (I checked), Mike would commandeer the riding mower with Taylor strapped to his back in a hiking carrier. Some of our neighbors found this amusing, but they were the same ones who probably wouldn't hesitate to report us to the homeowner's association for dreaded overgrowth violations.

Funny thing is, now that I've left the suburbs, and own the proverbial postage stamp yard, all that grass is the only thing I miss. I moved nearly six years ago, craving a less homogenous, more convenient life.

We attended church in the city, and our closest friends lived there. I'd even enrolled Taylor in a preschool and gymnastics program in the city because I wanted her to experience the world beyond our (mostly) well-maintained backyard. As a result, I was driving her into the city and back 4 days a week. An 80-minute commute? For preschool? Stop the madness. We bought a house a few blocks from Taylor's preschool, and it was one of the best decisions I ever made.

Now some might argue that I still live a somewhat suburban existence. My borough hosts a progressive dinner every year. It has a garden club. But, while I don't live in Pittsburgh proper, it's right across the street, literally. Pittsburgh is funny that way, sliced into a million little self-contained municipalities all located across the street from one another. Because technical definitions of "city" and "suburb" are difficult to pin down around here, I prefer to think of the 'burbs as a state of mind and of factors transcendent of zip codes and zoning laws, like diversity. By this measure, I am no longer a suburbanite.

My area of town is rumored to be home to more writers per capita than anywhere else in the city, and two blocks away, there is an art house theater, a Thai restaurant, a beer and dogz joint,, a non-Starbucks coffee shop, a wooded park and playground, a diner, and three other sit-down restaurants. I feel like I have the world in walking distance.

Someone once asked what I thought was the biggest difference between city and suburban living. I'd have to say it's the play dates. In the suburbs, everyone cleans their houses from top to bottom beforehand, and then pretends they didn't. In the city, they don't even bother. The pile of dirty dishes in the sink, toys strewn everywhere, that dusty collection of classic rock albums stacked dangerously high in the corner -- they just leave it, and welcome you in.

But seriously, folks: Maybe it was the lack of sidewalks, but I never felt more isolated and alone than when I was in the suburbs, despite La Leche League, Gymboree, and more play dates than I could count. Sure, some of that had to do with the extreme mom-ification of my existence, but I associate leaving the suburbs with leaving behind that narrow definition of me. That might not be fair to the 'burbs, and I don't knock anyone's choice to live there -- it just wasn't the place for me.

Finally, regarding traffic and my ability to buy needle and thread (my apparent barometers for quality of life): Traffic was actually worse in the suburbs, but of course I still get my needle and thread -- where else? -- at Target.

Deesha Philyaw is a freelance writer who has written for Essence, Wondertime (a Disney publication), Bitch, and The Washington Post. A native of Jacksonville, Florida, Deesha currently lives in Pittsburgh with her two daughters.

This is the first in a series, Why We Left, on why people made the break with the city to move to the 'burbs. Click here and tell us -- in a photograph, an anecdote, a list or a longer text -- why you made the move. ...read more rants