on the village

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Writing today from Culver City.

Just back from a run around the neighborhood that raised me, I’m typing while trying to keep my sweaty hands off the keyboard, resting my forearms on my mom’s office desk in what used to be my brother’s room. Across the hall is what was once my childhood bedroom, now the guest room, with floral bedding swapped for a dark grey, unassuming duvet.

I open the fridge, expecting leftovers from the night before and Trader Joe’s gogurts. Instead, I find green juices and dog treats. Milo, the pointer Viszla mix, has become the makeshift kid in the house. The piano is neatly organized with just one closed notebook resting on it, a far cry from the array of flying papers I once scattered as I discovered writing for the first time. I talk to my dad about my new restaurant job, instead of asking him how to add fractions together while hiding my disappointment about not getting the lead in the school play.

Last night, I played at The Culver Steps, the same grounds where my friends and I would buy iced coffee as teens, trying not to wince at the taste, desperate to feel older than we were.

Pre-show, by Rush Varela.

There were about 200 people in the crowd last night. My parents were in the front row, just like they always have been. My former campers, who I watched grow a few inches each summer, now have beards and iPhones. One of my favorite teachers was there, subtly smiling and exuding the same kindness and curiosity I remember. I saw my neighbors—the adults who raised me, the faces I passed every day walking home from school. The people who made me afterschool snacks, the ones who took me to Six Flags for their children’s birthdays.

I’ve been basking in the newness of who I am in Brooklyn, reveling in the freedom to write my own story. As I stood on that stage last night, I realized that my courage to forge my own path comes from the unwavering support of this city. Perhaps the guiding light behind every step I’ve taken has always been home.