I often speak ill of the Atlantic Ocean. I mock its weak tide. I disparage its small waves. I burden those within earshot with my comments because I grew up next to the vastly superior ocean, the Pacific Ocean. My remarks about the obviously inferior Atlantic Ocean are part of a greater collection of observations I have about life on the East Coast. Each comment finds its roots in my memory of youth on the beautiful, raw, and weird Oregon Coast. Yet, today I live near the Atlantic Ocean and am far from the small town on the Oregon Coast on which I was raised. I also have no intention of returning to that small town, and I never have.

On Leaving

For as long as I remember, I was obsessed with how exciting life would be outside of the Central Oregon Coast. I assume that many children dream of “getting out” of their hometown and exploring the world, but in a small town, the dream can be more akin to a psychosis. It begins with late-night conversations at sleepovers about leaving town. It transitioned in later years to judging those who do not leave town upon graduation while simultaneously fearing that you would one day be among those judged. Eventually, it became into a measuring stick of your worth. That measuring stick had only two points: (1) you move out of town or (2) you fail. There were no exceptions, and moving out of your parents’ house was insufficient. Buying a house near too your home may be nice for you, but you were still a failure according to the measuring stick. And one did not question the accuracy of its measurements.

For me, I became obsessed with moving as far away as possible. If leaving town was a success, then leaving the state was even better. The border kept getting pushed further until it finally resided on the East Coast. I needed to move far, far away. I never had any design on living abroad, but moving to the East Coast would be a statement. It would show my success, and that success would be earned, not like those in my hometown who drove fancy cars (of course, in my hometown, a high school student’s fancy car would be  a brand new Honda Civic with manual windows or an aged BMW). Moving far away would prove that I could make it on my own, that I could rise above, that I could face a challenge. It would only mean something if I did not move back. No. Going away is fine, but it means nothing if you end up back in your hometown. In fact, that could be almost worse. Moving back meant you could not make it out there. You came home, tail between your legs, and were a failure. Still at point two on the measuring stick.

On Having Left

So I left. I moved to D.C. After a stint in Eugene and Portland, here I am, still in D.C. The District is often described as a transient community, and it is to a large degree. However, the longer I stay here, the more I realize that I am surrounded by people who came home to D.C. or never left. I noticed the same thing when I lived in Portland. What are all these people doing living where they were born and raised? Why did they come home or, even stranger, never leave?

Although it would be more satisfying to rely on my childhood reasoning and judge them all on the measuring stick as failures for returning home, the actual answer is probably just about jobs. I do not pretend to fully understand the full economic comparison of a town on the Oregon Coast and Washington, D.C. But I do know that, on the Oregon Coast, your most likely landing place after high school was, and is, in the service industry. I am pretty sure my teachers knew this. I remember being taught frequently in school that the American economy is transitioning to a “service-based economy,” which I suppose is a nice way of describing what has happened to our economy and opportunities over the last few decades. I assumed that this message was nationwide. As far as I can tell, that message was not transmitted to everyone. From what I have heard, the suburbs in D.C. do not appear to be transmitting that message to the youth. I guess the youth in the wealthiest counties in America are not expected to wait tables.

On Not Returning

I would like to say that I no longer judge those who return home, but that would be inaccurate. I still find it odd to be surrounded by people who either never left their home or returned home. Maybe the people I know never expected to return home themselves. I find it hard to fathom living in the same place in which I was raised. I often wish I could move back to Portland or maybe Seattle. I do not envision moving to the Coast. I guess that puts me squarely on point one on the measuring stick, but maybe it is past time to retire that old stick anyway.