It used to be that when the name of my hometown popped up in conversation I would pipe-in and say, "Hey, I'm from ****ford. I grew up there. Lived there all my life." There used to be a certain amount of pride that came with saying that. But all that has changed: now that million-dollar homes and mini-malls crowd the landscape; now that farmland has been erased from the memories of its residents; now that the hills I used to play in as a child, camped in as a child, rode my bike through as a child on the way home from school - have been "developed" into something wholely unrecognizable.
I used to think, as a child, that my town would make a place for me and that I would naturally find my way there, into a place and position that was made just for me. Silly, naive and misguided thoughts in modern America. I don't think like that anymore. My home town is no longer my home - it's just a place where I live. I'm a ghost from another era, an unwelcome working-class slob whose been relegated to the outskirts of town, barely able to claim residency in this gentrified version of my boyhood home.
Working-class shlub reflects on the news, his station in life, and whatever else happens to pique his interest.
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