But lunch with a Windy City newcomer last week reminded me that some Chicago natives have a different opinion on the topic. A hardcore minority of Chicagoans think the only way to earn the demonym is to be born here, and one of them told my newcomer friend that an Indiana native could never hope to be classed among their ranks. Of course that’s baloney since Chicago is as much an immigrant city as New York. Ultimately, none of us is really from here.

Maybe it would help native and newcomer Chicagoans get along better if we could establish some sort of civic creed. If we could come up with a checklist of basic principles to denote Chicagoanism, we might be surprised to learn that some newcomers “get” this city better than some natives do. But what would those principles be? What should be on a checklist of customs and beliefs  which we could require “real” Chicagoans to swear to uphold?

Off the top of my head, I can think of a few potential civic vows. I swear to elect my local politicians for life. I swear to respect lawn chairs placed in shoveled-out parking spaces. I swear never to refer to Jewel in the singular. I swear to speed up on a yellow light. I swear to never use the words Willis and Tower in the same sentence.

They all might belong on an oath of Chicagoanship, and I’m willing to bet that every Chicagoan harbors art least one such belief that they feel bolsters their local credibility above the visiting masses. I know what mine would be. If da mare himself asked me to take a solemn oath of Chicagoanship, I would raise my right hand and say:

“I swear never to put ketchup on a hot dog.”

Well, not unless I was doing it for a child aged eight or younger. (See? I’ve been here long enough to learn a few exceptions, too.)

What would your oath of Chicagoanship be?

Those are the New Yorkers who probably shouldn’t travel far beyond the safety of a 24-hour subway system. In answer to the question posed on City-Data, a good reason not to move to Chicago is if you’re a New Yorker like the above who can’t wrap your mind around the fact that every other major city on the planet doesn’t necessarily feel like the five boroughs.

Our skyline notwithstanding, compared to other popular, large U.S. cities (I’ll avoid just comparing us to the other Alpha cities, that would be too narrow a comparison), Chicago’s draw tends to be a bit esoteric. We’re the kind of city that it takes time to fully appreciate–and fall in love with. Not the least reasons for that being we tend to have a slower pace and a greater sense of modesty than other major U.S. cities.

A fair number of New Yorkers come to Chicago and most love the place. Some New Yorkers–like me, for instance–move here and decide to stay very happily forever. But some other New Yorkers visit here and spend hours complaining how Chicago is not New York. It’s annoying for Chicagoans and a great way to make no friends out of them.

Comparing and contrasting high-rise Chicago with high-rise New York is akin to sizing London up against Paris and complaining that one isn’t exactly like the other even though they’re both relatively low-rise world cities. It’s a category error my fellow New Yorkers make all the time–the assumption that only cities that feel as animated and crowded as New York can have huge high-rise skylines. That assumption may work for places like Hong Kong or Sao Paulo (not that we approach either of their populations in Chicago).

But the Windy City feels amazingly different than New York. Not just a little, but a hell of a lot different. Even with the Loop, 25 miles of lakefront skyscrapers, and a huge, old rapid-transit system, Chicago isn’t a little New York and never has been. Experiencing that coming-to-Jesus realization in person is probably the biggest reason some New Yorkers are so put out by Chicago. This city is confusing to them in ways they never expect.

It’s also probably not a good idea to move here if you’re afraid to wear longjohns, a hat, a scarf, and gloves. If I had a nickel for every visitor I’ve heard complain about our winters as they stood in the snow on State Street in a windbreaker, I’d be a rich blogger. I tell my New York friends when people move here and continue to dress like that, sometimes we just lead them to Lake Michigan and push them through the ice.

They actually think I’m kidding.

This post originally appeared on the ChicagoNow blog, Chicagosphere.

Know this first: this is the most emotionally compelling blog I’ve ever read, and perhaps the best. A Chicago writer and pet lover loses his job, gets fed up with the economy, and decides to bike to the Pacific Ocean to promote pet adoption, with his favorite Basset Hound, Antigone, blogging the trip from her doggie trailer. But it’s the candid bravery of the human author that shines best as Antigone Goes West.

Chicago fiction author Marshall Lee, 41, was working an unstressful office job to give him the time and mental energy to write. The job evaporated with the economy last year, and Lee had a heck of a depressing time finding a replacement gig.

A stalwart Basset Hound-lover, and not a great fan of a Chicago winter (who is?), as Antigone tells it, one day Lee’s demeanor changed. Last fall, he came home with a bike and a little animal trailer, started taking her on practice rides around the northwest side, then around Chicagoland. And the next thing she knew, she was being towed across the country.

Laptop in paw, apparently.

Lee decided to give up the Windy City for the warmer winters (though no less onerous job market) of the Pacific Northwest. Figuring such a monumental move ought to be put to good purpose, he decided to make the trip by bicycle and dedicate his effort to Basset Hound adoption. And the best way to make that happen was to “let” Antigone blog the journey from her canine perspective as the scribe of Antigone Goes West.

It’s a touching, heartwarming, and at times melancholy blog, as Antigone chronicles the towns and states through which they pass, and the mood of her human companion as his well-known past recedes in the distance and an unknown future looms larger into view.

They’re in southern California now, trekking the last few hundred miles to the Pacific coast in San Francisco. Once there, the official journey will end and the pair will head up to Portland, Oregon, and potentially on to Seattle.

Today, in the midst of the Californian desert, Antigone remembered her origins in a sad puppy mill. Earlier this month, she was worried about the mood of her human companion as evidence of the stress of the 2,000-mile journey became apparent, as it had a few weeks before, in Colorado Springs, Texas.

Of course, there have been many happy moments, too. The inexpensive repairs at the bike shop in Tempe, Arizona. The fun of the foothills of the Continental Divide. The U.F.O. museum in Roswell, New Mexico. Meeting friends in Kansas City, Missouri.

Lee hopes to raise consciousness for Basset Hound adoption, and the blog offers numerous resources for you to become involved. His effort has earned him praised and media coverage along the way.

But this blog is something deeper. It’s an unexpectedly candid look into the heart and soul of an average Chicagoan forced by the hard times we’ve all been facing lately into making an extraordinary decision. This is as much Lee’s story as Antigone’s, and it’s an astounding one.

It is not lightly that I say, of every blog I’ve ever written about, this is easily the most personal, honest, and affecting story I’ve ever encountered. I’ve cried reading Lee and Antigone’s story. I’ve laughed, been riveted with attention, and rooted for this pair.

Why Lee isn’t a published author I don’t know. What I do know is Chicago’s loss will be the West Coast’s gain. If you want to read one the most compelling personal blogs you may ever come across, read this one.

From beginning to what I hope will be a well-earned, warmer-wintered end.

(Photo: A tee-shirt fit for a friend who took an unexpected Pepsi Challenge…and failed.)

I’m about as non-scene as a gay man can get, but I’m not a zealot. I’d never turn down an offer of free slushy drinks at Sidetrack. Nor did I yesterday, when I found myself sandwiched between Overly Frank and J. P. Organ in the MainBar of Chicago’s mainstream ‘mo hangout on Show Tunes Sunday.

Usually when I go to Sidetrack, which is rarely, I’m stuck in the stand-and-model GlassBar (yes, each bar has an official name), dragged there by whomever dragged me up to Boystown in the first place. Sunday was the first time them that brung me wanted to hang out in the MainBar, where Show Tunes nights are taken far more seriously.

I sneered at videos from the Madonna version of Evita and yawned through the clips from …Whorehouse (I’ve never gotten that show). But I raised my voice with the rest of the bar through the numbers from Oklahoma and tossed my napkins in the air during Titanic: The Musical.

What can I say? I’m a musical-theater purist.

After one too many prurient parts of others rubbed in passing across private parts of mine, though, I felt it was time to stop getting felt up. Frank and I quit Sidetrack and headed for somewhere altogether trashier: Gay-hop, otherwise known as the International House of Pancakes at the top of the Boystown Halsted strip.

Frank wanted something fried. I wanted to see if after two years since the last time I’d eaten there they’d finally cleaned the bathrooms. As I tucked into my biscuits with sausage gravy, I remembered why I used to like the joint.

“I forgot the interesting, trailer-trash vibe this place always has,” I told Frank. “It really is a guilty pleasure of mine.”

“You mean you like it here?” Frank asked, incredulous. “After all the eight minutes of shit you gave me when I suggested it?”

No one ever said I was agreeable. Case in point, I told the ex-Oklahoman to save his much-heralded Pepsi story for the walk back to the Clark bus. As we dodged the eternal puddle in the parking lot outside on our exit, I reminded Frank he owed me a tale.

“Much like I’ll eat in an Ihop instead of a real restaurant,” Frank began, “when I was in London a few years ago, I spent a lot of time eating in fast food places instead of savoring the fine English cuisine, since as you know the U.K. is not known for its food.”

“That changed a long time ago,” I interjected.

“Well maybe when you were there,” he shot back, “but that wasn’t my experience when I was there, now shut up and let me continue my story.”

I’d have smacked him, but as he is a libertarian who voted for McCain in 2008, I contended myself in the knowledge that as long as I know him my votes will cancel out his.

“Fast food places don’t have a lot of room in London,” Frank went on. “I was in a bilevel Burger King, with the dining room squeezed in downstairs from the order counter. I ordered something I don’t remember and a large Pepsi. I really don’t know what happened. A tremor? A foot slip? But there I was walking downstairs watching my soda tumble end over end in slow motion in front of me.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“When things start to go slow motion,” Frank said, “sometimes you think you have more time to react than you do. I tried to catch the Pepsi gingerly with my tray and instead managed to turn my tray into a tennis racquet that slammed the container all the way to the bottom of the stairs, where it exploded. Everywhere.”

I’d have bet money on that.

“Mortified and being extra careful, I made my way down the rest of the stairs, retrieved the now-empty cup, and went back up to the counter to tell them what had happened. The staff was very nice about it. As female employee went to mop the stairs, the man behind the counter took the cup and said, ‘Here, let me refill that for you.’”

Personally, at this point I’d have opted for something in a sealed container.

“More careful than I have ever been in my life, I went back down the stairs and set down my tray at a table. I felt safe finally sitting, so I grabbed a straw, opened it, and poked it into the lid on top of my new Pepsi. And that’s when the sides gave way.”

I laughed out loud, picturing my straight-laced conservative friend sitting in a puddle of pop in a fast-food basement, probably doing his best not to show any outward reaction.

“The woman mopping the stairs from my first spillage just looked at me and said, ‘Having a bad day, huh?’ Turned out when the guy refilled my Pepsi, he didn’t give me a new cup. And the battered old sides of the one that went down the stairs had just about had enough poking and prodding when it saw my straw coming.”

I flashed on the likely health violation of refilling a customer’s beverage container that had recently hit the floor, but that’s not germane to the incident.

Frank’s story drew to a close. “In response to my latest embarrassment, the counter guy, himself, came downstairs with a bunch of napkins and a new, third Pepsi. I told him I’d just as soon eat my meal dry, but he insisted. He also insisted on inserting the straw for me.”

“Did you learn anything from the experience?” I asked.

“Yep,” Frank said in a drawl reminiscent of a tumbleweed suddenly graced with the miraculous power of speech. “You can’t catch a midair Pepsi with a slow-motion tray.”

There’s gotta be a country song in there somwehere.

(Photo: Another raised drawbridge for “non-native” Chicagoans. Wells Street Bridge in action, from Wacker Drive.)

Like all adopted Chicagoans, from time to time I get told by some other local who doesn’t agree with me to “go back where you came from” if I don’t like the way things are done in the Windy City. It’s an age-old prejudice (most recently raised again by Chicago Magazine) that claims being born in Chicago somehow makes you a more authentic Chicagoan than a person who moved here from a different time zone.

Of course, unless your family was already living on the shores of Lake Michigan around the time of the Louisiana Purchase and the founding of Fort Dearborn–or you’re 206 years old, yourself–you’re no more a “native” Chicagoan than anyone else.

In response to my juggernaut rant about why CTA President Richard Rodriguez shouldn’t be driving to work at his own transit agency (boy, did that make the rounds this week!), a commenter named “Steve”–who, you won’t be surprised to learn, refused to give his correct email address–became the latest allegedly more authentic Chicagoan to tell me to go back to New York.

You know what happened next. I hope he buckled up.

Below, I give you Steve’s comment and my response. All I can say is he had it coming…

STEVE // Jul 23, 2009 at 10:28 pm

I was going to write a long post and say why I thought your argument was a joke, but I’m not going to waste my time. Instead, I’ll just never read your blog again. Go back to New York.

Don’t worry, Steve. I did write a long post to say why I think your argument–or lack of one–is a joke. And unlike you, I think it was time well spent…

MIKE DOYLE // Jul 23, 2009 at 10:52 pm

Steve, I’m certainly not going to defend my ideas. They speak for themselves and many others are in agreement. If you’re not, that’s fine with me.

Now to the real meat of the matter. You, Steve, represent one of Chicago’s most feckless types of individual. The kind that believes the status quo in this town and the politicians and functionaries who work so hard to create it and keep it unchanging are together somehow inherently worthy of praise, no matter how much they conspire to make life less livable for Chicagoans.

Also, the kind of individual who refuses to accept any sort of criticism of the above–really, of anything that has to do with Chicago. Especially from the people you deem to be “outsiders.”

You do realize, of course, unless you’re a Native American, that your family tree branched out from another country to arrive in the Windy City. If you were born here, chances are your parents or grandparents first set up shop in an east coast city, much like the one I was born and raised in.

More than likely, you’re not even from Chicago, but from some outlying suburb, yet afflicted with the general delusion many Chicagoland suburbanites suffer from in thinking they are somehow from the city that instead they and their towns orbit, like codependent satellites.

Your type of Chicagoan actually believes that you get to decide who is an authentic citizen of this city and who isn’t. And those you deem inadmissible, you love to verbally toss out out town.

It’s an old, boring way to be, smacking of back rooms, and closed minds, and the worst kind of clout. Happily–although I doubt you’ll see it this way–your type of Chicagoan is dying out. Going the way of lakefront airports, parking meters, Our Ladies of the Underpass, and mayoral progeny with any chance of further election.

No one has a license to decide who is or isn’t an authentic Chicagoan. I was drawn here by love for this city, I remain here by choice, and I’m not going anywhere. These roots I’ve grown are well-tended and deep, and very much mine. They’ve got staying power and so do I. I may not be from Chicago, but my ongoing willingness to defend its honor shows I’m definitely of Chicago. And–sorry Steve–you can’t change that.

Yet much as I love this city, its history, and its people, I won’t be sad to see you go. When they hold the memorial service for your breed of chumbolone, I’ll be sure to send flowers.

To a funeral chapel in Elk Grove Village, I’m sure.

(Photo: My neighborhood, your destination–how do we meet in the middle? The Nichols Bridgeway from the Art Institute of Chicago’s Modern Wing.)

During their windy City visit last week, Seattle’s coolest couple, Kasey and John, waxed giddily about the fun and frolic of my downtown Chicago neighborhood. Their reaction stands in stark contrast to the one I normally get from native Chicagoans when I tell them I live downtown. It’s almost like telling a New Yorker you never ride the subway. The response is always the same: no one’s stopping you from doing it, but why would you want the hassle?

Outer-neighborhood Chicagoans tend to think downtowners suffer through our central-city lives. How on earth do we live without backyard barbecues, front-door parking, and a cricket on every window ledge? It’s hard to describe the devotion some of us feel for our high-rise Chicago ‘hood.

It just widens the rift to try and explain the dreadful boredom their pastoral images of suburban Lincoln Square life bring up for us. And woe to us if we do express an iota of dissatisfaction with life at address numbers below 1200. (“If you don’t like it, then leave,” is a common Windy City answer for all sorts of questions when the Chicagoan doing the answering can’t think of anything else to say.)

So just why do I live in downtown Chicago? Last fall, before warm weather headed towards 17 below, I took a walk to ponder an appropriate answer. I came down to earth from the 38th floor and found the couch ladies sunning themselves in the late afternoon on the Marina City plaza overlooking the Chicago River.

“I never get tired of sitting out here,” said Proud Mary, gazing across the river at the Loop. Beyond 70 now, she’d lived in the towers since she was just beyond 60. “To be able to see skyscrapers like this from your front yard never ceases to amaze me.”

“Living in Marina City is pretty interesting, in and of itself,” said Great Kate, of similar age but far longer longevity in the towers. “What with Gary Kimmel, House of Blues craziness, and Vincent Falk, there’s never a dull moment.”

I left the ladies to their reverie and headed through the blooming former IBM Plaza to cross the river on the wooden planks of the Wabash Avenue Bridge, hearing the drone of tour guides from the architecture cruises passing below. Since I hadn’t eaten dinner yet, I thought about dropping into Emerald Loop, the Vaughan-family pub tucker under the Jeweler’s Building at the south end of the bridge.

When I moved downtown, I never expected a hoodie two blocks from my house. Servers who recognize me, a mean rare burger (as long as it isn’t the weekend), and a good head on a pint of Smithwicks in a downtown pub that isn’t overrun by tourists is hard to turn down. But I was on a mission, so I passed by and walked over to Michigan Avenue.

As I crossed Randolph, I ran into a film crew outside the Cultural Center. Coming from New York City, I’ve always found filming in my neighborhood bothersome. (Whether in Park Slope, Brooklyn, or downtown Chicago, who wants to delay their emergency pharmacy run for allergy meds so yet another Batman film crew can line up a shot?) I dodged the crew hand trying to stop me from crossing the street and proceeded through their shot and on my way.

Music led me across the street into Millennium Park. A free evening of open-air ballroom dancing had taken over the lawn at the Pritzker Pavilion. I found the rhythmic movement of the crowd mesmerizing–and a bit more calming then the rock fest that wafted through the flowers of the adjacent Lurie Garden during my (attempted) sunset meditation the day before.

I continued across Monroe into Grant Park. It was seven o’clock by now. In the distance, I could see Buckingham Fountain begin its hourly geysering. Ever since moving to Chicago, I’ve headed to the fountain whenever I’ve felt the need to ponder my life. That evening was no different. As usual, I sat on the benches in the southeast corner of the plaza and watched the fountain erupt across the backdrop of the Loop skyline to the delight of tourists from parts elsewhere. Most likely all of whom–like me, to this day–unable to watch the spectacle without hearing the theme from Married with Children in their heads.

But even my trusty fountain offered no way to explain to others why I live in downtown Chicago. So I headed back towards Michigan Avenue, past the ball fields along Balbo. They gay softball leagues were playing, so I paused to happily gape for awhile, then continued south on Michigan towards Roosevelt. The border flower gardens were still blooming along the way (thanks to Chicago’s favorite gardening lesbian, Christy Webber, and her Far South Side urban-landscaping empire). Tourists always seem to keep to the sidewalks at the edge of Grant Park. Instead, I made like local stroller pushers and dogwalkers and wended my way along the grass between the rows of plantings.

Hunger finally won out at 11th Street. I turned back into the street grid, knowing exactly where to head. Corned beef with a schmear of chopped chicken liver and an egg cream (taken away early by the waiter, meaning–score!–second egg cream on the house) hit my ex-New Yorker spot at Eleven City Diner. I noshed until after eight.

It was well past dark as I exited the eatery. Ordinarily I’d have walked home. I find the mid-evening hours in the Loop after the theater crowd has headed in off the sidewalks a time of quiet potential. But that night I was too pooped–and stuffed–to continue pedding.

Instead, I headed to the Roosevelt CTA station and plopped down on a cloth-covered Orange Line seat for my 10-minute ride home to State and Lake, without an answer, thinking maybe I had it all wrong.

What was the big deal about downtown Chicago, anyway? I could just picture my suburban friends marveling–and rolling their eyes–at walking two miles (“Why bother?”) through a city park (“Was it safe?”) to go to a diner (“Don’t they deliver?”) and come home on an ‘L’ train (for suburbanites, that speaks for itself).

As the train hurtled north through the South Loop ‘L’ canyon, I was brought back to my senses by a glimpse of a State Street billboard sporting a single sentence, laid out in large letters over a big bullseye:

“Living in Berwyn Makes Life Easier.”

And I’m sure it could. But for the life of me, I just can’t figure out how.

(Photo: Letting go of what you think you know about yourself can be the starting point for finding out what you’re truly made of.)

[NOTE: Although the timing of this entry is ironic given recent controversy involving Intelligentsia Coffee (tangentially) and Yours Truly (directly), this autobiographical piece was in the works for several months prior to its publication today.]

The following is a Chicagoans Project guest post from Deanna Myers, scribe of the blog, Mindless Meanderings. For the genesis of this project, please see here. To tell your story on CHICAGO CARLESS, email me at mike (at) chicagocarless (dot) com.

Once you’ve lived somewhere long enough, its landscape begins to change with you. Its landmarks–at one time foreign, empty, meaningless–begin to sprout hints of growth as you plant memories like seeds. Soon, a living breathing history of your time there begins to reveal itself.

In my three years as a Chicago resident, a veritable garden of stories and experiences has been planted here along the streets and corners. Places that, to others, may have meant something else completely or perhaps nothing at all as they passed them by.

In my first three months, the city seemed desolate, lonely. I lived in a swanky lil’ apartment provided by my cubicle-dwelling, high-paid fiancé. In it there lived a cat, a few vague ambitions, some expensive furniture, and a very unhappy little girl. I had no friends, or anyone with whom I had anything in common.

If I left the safety of my apartment at all, it was to brave the freezing January weather in order to make the trek to a Starbucks downtown at 4 o’clock in the morning. If you’ve never been on the Blue Line at 4 o’clock in the morning during a Chicago winter, let me assure you that it is not the kind of impression of our fair city that leaves a newcomer glistening with the naïve gleam of young ambition and high hopes.

My only refuge lay in hiding away in my apartment, my only friend my cat. My fiancé acted like a combination of master–lording over every single move I made, criticizing the manner in which it was done, and child needing constant care and attention. I endlessly slaved to please and subdue him, because he was all I thought I had in the world.

The city, itself, seemed an endless and vicious jungle which forced me to navigate through its myriad of cold, mean people who would stare at me on the train, throw trash on the street where I was walking, or make uncouth comments about me and my race. Eventually, though, the ugly words that were strewn at me like weapons began to hurt a little less. I learned to take advantage of others’ ignorance by fulfilling their expectations that I did not speak English. Most importantly, I learned how to pose my very own “do NOT fuck with me” expression and stature every city dweller must eventually perfect.

And I also bought pepper spray.

I’m not sure what it was that forced me to realize that things needed to change. I suppose that particular moment was arbitrary, though, since change occurred whether or not I can recall when. I’d heard about a high-end boutique coffee roaster on the Food Network. I knew it had to be good when I mentioned the name “Intelligentsia” and all my foodie friends back home swooned. Their barista had me at “microfoam.” I found out about a new store opening and stalked the soon-to-be manager endlessly until he agreed to interview me.

Then I decided to go back to school. I began double majoring in biology and theatre. I had a plan. I was going to save the world while speaking with perfect diction. Maybe even in verse.

When I look at these two seemingly simple choices, it occurs to me that there is so much that we take for granted. To many people, having the freedom even to make choices about a decent-paying job and a college education are luxuries. Things that not everyone has the opportunity to pursue. And my two seemingly small decisions in these areas together became the catalyst for the enormous change that was about to occur in my life.

First, there was the café culture into which I threw myself. That culture has a life of its own. It cultivates community, spurs discussion, and harbors its own little social groups. I think any city’s café culture is like a hidden gem. I’m convinced that cafés and those who dwell within are the driving forces of the cities where they’re located.

It’s in the cafés where artists, philosophers, the overeducated in general who are happy to disguise themselves as mere food service workers, and caffeine addicts hide behind finely crafted espresso machines and demitasse and plot, quietly and eloquently, to slowly take over the world. It was in my café where I was finally started meeting people who challenged me, who made me laugh genuinely and with unapologetic joy, who forced me to think, and from whom I sought respect rather than their mindless approval.

Then there was college. That’s where I saw people working productively toward their goals for the first time. It was strange to me to see people in my peer group actually working towards something, and enthusiastically, too. It changed my perspective, too. I threw myself into work and school whole-heartedly, and for the first time in a very long time, I felt passion for something.

The facts, however, that my attention was now diverted, that I was no longer terrified of leaving my house, and that there were people and elements of my life beyond anyone else’s ability to control, drove my fiancé absolutely mad. First, he tried adding things to the list of requirements I needed to fulfill in order to keep him happy, calling me “selfish” for pursuing my own goals. Then, he tried coaxing my attention back towards him with gifts. He even adopted two more cats to keep me company when I was home. Finally, he pretended to lose interest in me and attended to an unfulfilled ambition of his own by trying to shoot a short film.

When I offered to help, he jumped at the chance to have me to himself again for ten days, totally supervised and never out of his sight. That was all well and good until the realization struck me that he was paying for the film with credit cards in my name, taking full credit for the entire production, and falling terribly short of the skill set that an apt auteur should’ve had at his disposal.

After all was said and done, I was humiliated. I was left with the debt from the film yet there was no finished film to be seen, and one of our crew members sued us in a very public way over my fiancés lack of ability to pay his bills.

Eventually, the fighting that by now had become a ritual between us began to turn into periodic threats by one of us to leave. But I never did. I was too afraid to disappoint anyone, too afraid to hurt him, terrified that he was right when he said that no one else would ever give a shit about me once he was gone. And, let’s face it, in a sad way, I was comfortable.

My fiancé never walked out, either. After creating grand illusions about what real love was supposed to be and trying to force us both to live by his dysfunctional visions, he was too caught up in his self-created drama to notice neither one of us was happy to be there.

Finally, one day we both realized that it simply took too much energy to sustain the fiction that we still cared, and over an argument about pumpkins we dissolved a seven year relationship. To my absent surprise, he very quickly found another unlucky woman on whom to project his fantasies. Meanwhile, I discovered just as quickly that the world could be a very scary place for a suddenly single girl.

Unlike when I was with my former fiancé, now the dangers lay outside of my home, in all the places we’d been together. I could pass a stop sign and immediately remember the conversation we’d had while waiting to drive through the intersection. I would walk past the Madison street stairs of the Blue Line’s Washington station and recall what it was like to ride to work with him in the mornings. We’d always kiss there at the bottom of the stairs before parting for another workday while I’d sing to myself, “My baby takes the morning train…”

Everywhere I went in Chicago, every little thing we’d ever done as a couple in this city would constantly replay in my mind. The memories would sprout up like thorny, uninvited weeds underlaying every step I took.  I’d have near breakdowns at street corners where he’d stopped once to tie his shoe. It was really quite ridiculous.

But somehow, slowly, I began to dig those memories up at the roots and replace them with seeds of my own choosing. I choose seeds of independence. Over time, they began to thrive in unexpected ways. With my fiancé receding into the back corners of my mind, Chicago’s familiarity became friendly again. I came to live once more in a place marked by my own story, my own history. A city I could rely on once more, full of vibrant colors and lush possibilities.

My memories began to reflect not those of a defeated little girl, but of a strong young woman. Yes, a woman who no longer had three cats (I really miss them), a 50-inch flat screen television, the façade of a perfect loft apartment with an elevator that opened (often unexpectedly) into the living room, the false security that someone was waiting at home for her, or aspirations of becoming a doctor who moonlighted as a famous Shakespearean actor. But also, a woman who had gained a sense of herself both artistically and literally, renewed her appreciation of her community, family, and friends, and discovered the art and beauty hidden within herself and the world she inhabited.  All for the first time, ever.

As I walk through Chicago now, I pass new landmarks and pause to consider what fresh happiness has been cultivated there. I look around, thankful every single day for all of the wonderful things that my seeds of independence have sown. I am proud to call this city, this garden, mine, and I am even happier to know that I share it with millions of other gardeners who add to the beauty every day by living their lives true to themselves. No matter who tries to tell them not to.

___

Deanna Myers was raised in Rochester, Michigan. She moved to Chicago three years ago for love of a man (and then again, not), but when that didn’t pan out, she decided to remain for love of Chicago. She is a barista extraordinaire at Intelligentsia Coffee’s Lakeview store, performer, writer, and choreographer, and spends her spare time writing her blog, Mindless Meanderings, and musing on how much better it is to be a single Windy Citizen than an engaged impending house frau. As if.