Ann Arbor-ing at its Finest

I was in Clarkston. I was in St. George. I was in Las Vegas (airport…).

None of them are quite like Ann Arbor. I live in this weird not-city city where hippies dance outside, maybe-professors play weird instruments on the diag, hipsters angstily smoke through campus, and I model-walk down State St. all while my circle scarf blows in someone else’s face.

But I thrive here. In this magical haven/hell.

I got back from break, unloaded all of my belongings, and then blared Bastille mash-ups while I lit incense, steeped some herbal tea (the one instance my life isn’t caffeinated), and read Hardt’s book on Deleuze. Some people have the gall to tell me that I live a delusional life that once I leave Ann Arbor I will never be able to function in society.

And to them I raise my wedding-ring finger, which in my book is as dirty an insult as it gets.

This city builds people who will run corporations—sure—who will cure cancer—woo-hoo—and who will build really tall buildings—gasp. This city also creates those that will be on Broadway, write the next Howl, and describe this post-postmodern/whateverthehellyouwanttocallit society we live in. It creates people who make culture and those that destroy culture. And thankfully, all so humbly, I hope to leave here creating and critiquing “culture.”

Or ontological variations thereof.

It’s also way more than this. Ann Arbor is an emotional feeling. You can’t deny that pulling off of M-23 and heading your way to Main Street doesn’t bring a certain joy to your heart (a certain burning to your bosom—which is often 3am pizza). It’s the feeling walking across the diag in a herd of people and trying to run one floor down Dennison and almost being late to class. It’s the feeling where I have a community of friends I can turn to and a community of strangers I will just maybe meet.

But let’s not get utopian too fast.

Conceptualizing much on a deep level on any type of plane is still difficult. I still scream to myself on the streets and still see violent acts of racism, sexism, homophobia, classism, ableism, ageism. I feel uncomfortable walking home alone whilst wearing beadazzled short shorts and for good reason—people throw insults like/with objects from cars. And I’m privileged in all ways except for identifying as gay. How would it feel to not have all of this privilege?

Ann Arbor allows for conversation. In some spaces a safe dialogue is all I want and usually get. In classrooms I can actively debate those that I unapologetically oppose. In hookah bars and coffee shops and discotheques I can converse. Above all, Ann Arbor is a place that I can talk to people and usually be heard (even if it is only myself that will ever listen).

My thoughts are “free” here.

But it’s not just about me. There are so many poetry readings to go to where people’s words, if but for an instant, are free to be heard. We have art galleries (UMMA to unknown) that have Monet and have porn folded into paper sculptures—images are free to be seen. We have boom boxes and spoken word and symphony orchestras and jazz combos and acapella where notes are free to be felt.

In the most cliché of ways: Ann Arbor is a place where the cage is semi-loosened. The bars are bent just enough so I can stretch my limbs. And it feels so nice to be home.