You know that old saying, “You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl”? Yeah, that’s me.

I grew up downtown in the ’70s when Navy Pier was still just a lonely dock stretching into Lake Michigan and the Sears Towers hadn’t yet been given its grievous new name. Boxcars coupled themselves beneath my high-rise apartment’s window like the hookers on Rush Street and kids were getting mugged for their new Air Jordans.

In those days, I’d ride the El to elementary school alone and spent my days congregating with pals at Oak Street Beach until the sun went down. Today’s parents would choke on the freedom we had as children of the city, hopping on the 155 Sheridan for a quarter and dashing over to Water Tower Place to see and be seen by classmates.

I’m 42 now and the days of my youth are long gone, but the memories and the impact of growing up in a large city are not. Traversing Chicago on my own every day made me tough, quick-thinking, resourceful, and generally fearless — qualities that have served me well as an adult.

The primary thing I learned, however, is acceptance. Every day, I was in contact with the upper class, lower class, homeless, black, white, gay, straight, transgendered, hopeless, hopeful, and every conceivable cross-section of humanity you can think of. No one needed to teach me tolerance as a child, it was woven into the fabric of my existence.

Now I’m an adult, happily living with my children in the blistering state of Florida. People here are generally an accepting crowd — as much as one can hope for in the South. Not a day goes by, however, that I don’t long for Chicago. I miss its beauty, its history, its culture. I miss the unconditional acceptance of a city that embraces everyone, no matter their background, proclivities, or social standing.

I went back to the city a couple of years ago and was overwhelmed with emotion the minute my cab rounded McCormick Place en route from Midway Airport. I spotted the building where I spent most of my childhood peeking over the skyline. Buckingham Fountain was still gushing water, as it had every warm summer day during my youth. The lions stood waiting for me at the Art Institute, reminding me of the days I spent sitting at their feet waiting for a bus.

I spent the first day walking up and down State Street, stopping at Potbelly’s for a tuna sub, and ducking into Fields for a Frango Mint. I felt 14 again. I felt as comfortable as a baby bird in a nest — everything so familiar, so enticing. I was home.

I’m often asked if I’ll ever go back to Chicago. Practically speaking, no, not unless I trip over a million dollars and can afford to get myself a place downtown. I tried suburban life and, frankly, I’m not cut out for it at all. Florida suits me just fine and I love what it has to offer my kids and me, so I’ll be here a good long while.

I’ll probably never live in the city again, but the city will always live in me.

Image: Giorces

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