It found me again. That undeniable energy drawing purpose out of thin air.

I ran into someone from my teenage years. A fellow upper-middle-class-private-high-school Memphian, if that’s a thing. I played MtG when he was a level 2 judge, which are not things anymore, so let’s agree the connection is tenuous. Small, weak and completely 1-dimensional, he knew me during the worst summer of my life. I can’t stress how few people from that era are people I’d choose to see again. I remember him fondly, a cute boy with witty banter, and I believe his impression is “condescending hot girl”. Making the connection prior to our “date”, I’m surprised he showed up at all.

Sitting in the window at Shorty’s, I’m reading Skill Shot and waiting for a new opportunity. I get a text, “A) I’m here. B) my wallet isn’t.” I see him through the window and wonder if he’s trying to bow out. Still ignorant to my real first impression, I lure him inside with the promise of a drink. Lacking his ID, my reputation buys free pass. After settling he starts immediately. Saying something about my 901 area code and Bryn Mawr and before I catch on he drops the bomb, “Are you Mary?” I haven’t heard that name from anyone but my mother for over a decade now. The people who love me know me as Rochelle.

I figure the date aspect is busted at this moment.  He witnessed me at arguably my worst. Daunted but not defeated, I relish the chance to find out what sort of life this pseudo-stranger has lived. Asking questions and absorbing answers, my emotions flare. I pine for the life he describes, stable and well thought out. I wonder if I could have had this with better decisions of my own. He doesn’t ask me much, to my dismay. That’s #2 on the He’s Just Not That Into You list of things to look for. Not surprisingly, his opinion of Memphis is frozen in carbonite from when he escaped. The part of me he shows interest in isn’t my Southern heritage.

Most of the Southern transplants I’ve met have the same joking dislike of their hometown. Of course, I haven’t met any other real Memphians. Staying as long as I did gives me a different perspective. Turns out, everywhere is pretty much the same. Everything changes, given enough time and distance. Memphis isn’t the same city he talks about. His vitriol may lack fizz but I know the flavor all too well. Despite hardships, I love who I am. I’m proud of what I’ve scraped together from the remains of my dignity. No matter how many lives I’ve lived, I’m not a victim. Moving across the country, carving out a place to belong, letting go of everything while living on a thin line.