Suburban Hell
I lived in a small town in Northern California. I could walk and bike to my friend’s house and show up unannounced. I would ride to dinner, hang out with friends, cycle home with so much freedom that I had never experience before. The pilots and officers at my work (I was in the Coast Guard) took it to an extreme and would bike to work, [on the freeway] usually showing up decked in cycling gear and clip on shoes.
After moving to Texas and experiencing the oil-laden landscape that pervades the South, I began to hate the confinement of my car. There was no option to go on a leisurely stroll to the restaurant down the street without having to walk through a grass field and scamper through a muddy ditch. There was no safe way to walk to my friend’s house in the neighborhood that bordered mine. We were trapped, and yet- no one seemed to recognize it as such. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have except I experienced the absolute delight of biking safely through a community where large trucks didn’t try to mow me down.
I was lucky enough to live in Oviedo, Spain for three months. I joke that I can speak Spanish, but I don’t have a sense of humor in the language yet, and even with such a failing in my personality, after a few weeks, I experienced community built solely from a strong sidewalk culture. On week 4, I was on the other side of town having a beer with new local friends when I heard, “Sierrita! ¿Que tal?” It was Alfonso, the café owner I bought coffee from most mornings, who was walking his dog. These encounters began to occur often, making me feel woven into the fabric of the city without any particular focus on doing so. It was incredible and I noticed a few things that I will get to later…
It was my move to the suburbs of Maryland that I officially became depressed. I found myself scrolling websites, looking at bathing suits, waterbottles, how to decorate my house. I recognized I was lonely. I missed being able to text friends, “Want to grab some wine?” “Want to grab a cheesecake with me?” And we would both walk ten minutes and meet in the middle and catch up, chasing away my ennui in a way only friends can.
Trying to be practical, I joined a jiu-jitsu gym. It was $210 a month. I found a community but didn’t make any friends. However, that works… I’m not sure.
On top of my severe loneliness, and constant window-shopping, I began to notice how scared my neighbors were. I would get texts asking if we got a strange knock on our door. Or whether the firework we heard was really a gunshot, etc. I couldn’t ignore the signs on people fences showing guns, saying “PRIVATE PROPERTY,” “KEEP OUT,” “BEWARE of DOG,” etc.
The entire culture seemed to be about containment. Containing one neighborhood from the other, containing one yard/house/life from the people surrounding you. (There’s nuance and exceptions to this, but for this purpose- this was my reality). People who loved baseball and would come into “dangerous” Baltimore, by driving in with their little (or gigantic) metal bubbles and wade through hours of traffic, trek through paid parking lots, to get to the baseball game. Ignoring the lightrail that would drop you off right at Camden Yards.
Things that I noticed:
I shopped and spent more money with my loneliness than I ever did when I was getting my social needs met.
Suburbanites seemed genuinely fearful of the city. They are fearful of being around strangers on sidewalks, buses and anywhere that doesn’t require payment (stadium parking lots, Disney, airports, etc).
Social media was full of literal stampedes for limited edition Yetis, Stanleys, and HydroFlasks.
This all led to me making my first paintings about the extreme dislike of the suburbs. We eventually moved into the city and I get to take the bus everyday and have enjoyed the freedom of being in a walkable space again, surrounded by chance encounters and new friends. More art, process pics and thoughts incoming.
