The other night, after Derrick and I spent twenty five minutes trying to find a decent parking spot and ended up wedged between a chain link fence and an abandoned digger, we began walking our way to Diesel on East Carson to see one of his favorite (and admittedly, one of my new favorite) local bands.
As we were approaching the main drag, we disagreed for the millionth time on the right direction, and for the millionth time, I was absolutely, confidently correct. When I highlighted that fact, he softly mentioned something about how he doesn't know this part of town, and my reply was a very vocal, and completely mock-serious, I GREW UP ON THESE STREETS.
One thing I discovered upon moving to suburbia when I turned fourteen was that no one ever left. At least until they could legally get into one of the hundreds of bars, nestled comfortably between churches and tattoo parlors, or had to pass through on their way to a high school football game in Mount Lebanon.
While my infancy was spent in my grandparents' home in Mount Oliver, my mother and I eventually moved nearby, to an apartment on the South Side. This period of my life wasn't especially documented, save for a few pictures of my diaper-clad self bouncing between sidewalks, staring in awe at dozens of hot air balloons (and not just the colorful bags above wicker baskets -- we're talking giant cookies and bottles of Miller Lite) celebrating the Pittsburgh Regatta, which has since gone to the toilet, along with the balloon festivities.
And as we continued walking, I realized how I haven't just gone out and taken pictures of the city for a while, and yesterday on my way to work, I shot a few of my old neighborhood and realized how happy I was that I grew up there.