Exposure 02: I grew up between two rivers

A personal geography of home and change

I grew up between two rivers. Three highways took me to high school—a 30-minute drive on a good day, an hour or more if I left two minutes later. All my friends lived 30 minutes away, my grandma included. Some lived across state lines, in Illinois where the view of St. Louis is prettier than actually being in the city itself. A city that grew out and wide and thin. The city is pretty, with its museums and delis on the Hill, in its streets for St. Patrick’s day in Dogtown and Mardi Gras in Soulard. The city of immigrants and Budweiser and fur trade and community. The Gateway to the West.

And West I went but not before I went South.

I grew up between two rivers, the Missouri and the Mississippi. In the OG capital of the state. St. Charles — Cottleville, to be specific. A small town with homegrown excitement, a fourth-gen deli, and a Catholic Church at its heart. I grew up crossing Dardenne Creek. The town I grew up in has changed so much since I left 10 years ago. Now it has food trucks and pickleball courts and still, that deli.

I grew up between two rivers and two highways. I-70 and 364. If I’d row my way down the Mississippi, I trade my toasted ravs for some powdered beignets. I think New Orleans was whispering to me before I ever arrived—from St. Louis fleur des lis to the Saints fleur des lis, from the intersection of the Missouri River into the Mississippi and down it. Fur traders, brick makers, window sealers and painters, activists and grit and hard working, forward-thinkers. From Plessy on the street car to the birthplace of Black Lives Matter. I carry with me and learn from a story of hope and opportunity and the courage to fight for it all.

I grew up between two rivers and two highways. If you’d take 70 West about 12 hours, you’ll reach Denver. The city on the Front Range. Now, my home. Land of the Ute, Cheyenne, and Arapaho peoples. I went from living below sea-level to living a mile high. From the Crescent City to Queen City. When we first moved to Denver, we lived in an apartment overlooking Larimer, the oldest street in town. We faced the mountains and watched the sun set behind them, the city lights turning on at the Rockies stadium.

I grew up between two rivers, just off highway 70, in Cottleville, Missouri. Down the Mississippi, New Orleans raised me too—in its cracked sidewalks and second lines, in its celebration of life and death, in its saints and sinners. I’m growing up just off highway 70, in Denver, Colorado. I’ve walked and am walking the streets of pioneers and firsts and changemakers. I’m learning from my ancestors and my friends’ ancestors. I’m learning how to belong and break cycles and start new ones. I’m growing up on wartorn, rich soil.

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