Someone asked me recently, in good faith: "Do you ever make it up to Montgomery County anymore?"

That's where I grew up. Outside DC. The suburbs. If you ask me where I'm from I am going to avoid the question.

I haven't been since Christmas of 2019.

I'm not on good terms with my family. That's part of it. But the truth is bigger than that. The truth is: I've always hated it there.

Not the place itself. The place has a special kind of beauty. The trees. The quiet streets. The memory of doing stupid things in the woods when I was a kid.

But existing there? It's overwhelming. Expensive. The daily traffic alone makes me want to disappear.

Whenever I am there, I am so visibly out of place that people either treat me like a complete weirdo or profile me as some kind of criminal.

The Last Time I Lived There

Late 2016. I was sleeping in my car. Not because I was homeless in the way people imagine—I had places I could go—but because staying with people triggered my dust mite allergy so badly that I couldn't breathe. Constant congestion. Irritated ears. Delirium from lack of sleep.

That delirium made me weirder. Which made everything worse.

I was pulled over for a traffic stop once. I thought I was doing everything right. Pulled into a well-lit shopping center. Kept my hands visible. Spoke calmly.

The officer approached with his hand on his holster. He chastised me for pulling over where I did and how I did. He said I should have stopped in the median of the road where he turned his lights on, where it was poorly lit and congested. I thought I was being safe. I was wrong. I'm never good enough over there.

The Last Night

The last night I spent in that area, a young man offered to pay me to come stay at his place in Arlington and cook for him. The apartment was totally unfurnished. Bare. Dusty. The kind of place that makes you imagine a straight man to live.

I didn't want to sleep in there or with him. So I slept in my car, parked in the complex lot.

At 3 AM, I was woken up by flashlights. Police and security. They asked if I was trespassing.

I told them I was staying with a resident.

They made me walk to the unit. Knock. At 3 in the morning. Wake up the entire building—the subsequent dog barking made sure of that. The resident let me in. I slept on the dusty floor.

I didn't trespass. I didn't break any laws. But I was the one with the flashlight in my face at 3 AM.

The Library

I used to pass time at the college library. Ten minutes on foot. Five minutes driving. I wasn't employable then. I'd go to use the computers, work on my writing, fill out graduate school applications.

I wrote a lot about political activism themes. I'm sure that got flagged.

The last few times I went, security would walk by me constantly. Watching. Circling. I wasn't doing anything wrong. But I was being watched. They tried to stop me the last time I left.

I hated it.

I imagine this is what Black people experience constantly in that area. I can't speak for them. But for me, it was new. And it made me feel incredibly unwelcome in the place where I grew up.

The Election

This was all happening toward the end of the 2016 election. The one where we elected a tyrant. I didn't know then how bad it would get. But I knew I couldn't stay.

I left in January 2017. I haven't lived there since.

Why I Don't Go Back

It's not just the family stuff. It's the cameras everywhere. The cops. The way my body reacts to the dust. The way my presence seems to trigger pearl-clutching in people—fear, suspicion, annoyance.

I'm not a criminal. I'm not a threat. I'm just someone who doesn't fit the suburban mold. And that place has no room for people who don't fit.

So I stay away.

Not out of anger. Out of self-preservation.

What I Miss

I miss the woods I used to hang out in. I miss my chosen parents home up there. I miss the quiet streets at night. I constantly have dreams where I am in my childhood house.

I don't miss the flashlights. I don't miss the hand on the holster. I don't miss being watched in the library.

I don't miss feeling like a criminal for existing.

For Anyone Else Who Doesn't Go Back

If you have a place like this—a hometown, a family, a county—that you can't return to, not because you don't care, but because it's not safe for you to be there...

You're not alone.

We're not quite refugees or exiles. We're just people who learned that home is not a place on a map. It's a place where you can breathe without being watched.

I haven't quite gotten there yet, but I'm closer than I was in 2016.

And I'm not going back to find it.