LEAVE YOUR HOMETOWN!

What leaving Boston taught me

By Ava Petrillo

Everyone goes on vacation, falls in love with a place for a week, and says they’re going to move there. Some people joke about it, some people quietly think it and hold it like a secret, but then some people actually do it. 

The ones who pack up their lives and start over somewhere new aren’t just chasing a place, a passion, or a goal. They want to meet a version of themselves they didn’t know existed, and this is often the case for many people who do leave their hometown. At least that’s what happened for me.  

I’d like to say that I am one of those people who packed up all their things and headed out on a whim. I wish I had some outrageous story to tell, something movie-like, like that I went to Tennessee and was met by a great spirit and guided there by a force. It wasn’t as simple as falling in love with a place as much as it was falling in love with potential. Potential, to me at the time, had so many definitions. I wasn’t thinking that I could be someone else or someone different. I wasn’t thinking of starting something new or completely erasing who I was, the mistakes I have made, or the mistakes that have crossed my path. I just liked the idea of having potential be somewhere in the back of my mind, marinating. Knowing I could do something new if I wanted to, and if I thought of anything new to begin with, that I would have the chance to chase whatever it was. 

When I moved away, nobody told me that I would have to relearn how to live. No one mentioned that the simple things you’ve done your whole life suddenly feel unfamiliar, like you don’t quite know how to exist the same way anymore. You’ll walk into a grocery store and completely miss the vegetable aisle. Driving? Depending on where you go, some people will make you feel like you have never touched a steering wheel. It feels vulnerable and awkward, like wearing a cast. You know you don’t know anything about your surroundings, and you start to wonder if locals can tell. You feel it everywhere, constantly, out of place and disconnected. That’s how it goes for about a year or two. 

When I packed up all my stuff, put it in a Grand Cherokee, closed the trunk, and left Boston with my grandmother, I felt the same disconnect that I remember feeling when I didn’t know Nashville. It’s a bittersweet feeling to know you don’t belong somewhere you spent your whole life. And that’s the thing right there…is that you know. 

An 18-hour drive with your grandmother, who practically raised you, is enough to drive someone up the wall. We laughed, but we also bickered—a lot. In fact, I think we cried too. She brought a real paper map and insisted that we didn’t need the newest iPhone model. That was our first argument once we hit the road to Nashville, and, to be honest, I was scared of more to come. There’s a lot to see on your way there from the North, so if you ever go, make sure you pay attention for 20 minutes before it all turns to corn. Along New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia, I watched the same scenery for 200 miles. I can recall setting my forehead on the window and feeling my eyes race back and forth at the same speed as the traffic. I offered to drive and was nearly knocked out by the amount of greenery ahead. It was like counting sheep. I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. I had good company; we picked songs from each decade and used music as a timeline. I was 19 at the time. I had a lot going on mentally, and all I can think about now is how different aspects of life are, despite people feeling the same feelings and being the same creature. I wonder how many people were leaving their old lives, too. 

I always knew about the South. I watched TV, so I was aware of all the “yes ma’ams” and “yes sirs”, but to hear those phrases out loud, in real life, was something I never thought would be true. You call someone ma'am in school, at home, and you’re being smart, and I don’t mean in a good way. I struggle saying those words to adults still, 4 years later, you’d think I’d have it down, but there’s still a lingering disrespect feeling, even though it’s the most respectful phrase you can say down here. Southerners have a tone that makes me wonder if I truly have manners at all. I did, however, start saying "drawer" instead of "draw" and developed a sweet tooth for bread pudding. But it’s not just the obvious things that really got me when I adjusted in Tennessee; there are a lot of small aspects that have turned my life upside down, for the better. I notice now more—more than I ever have. Being independent, away from your home and your family, you have no choice but to reflect. It’s kind of all you have once you get settled in your new place. You’ll wonder about traditions and religion and even lessons you learned as kids. You start thinking about how your family used to live, how the people you were surrounded by acted, and the phrases they used to say start to linger. You’ll catch yourself acting how your parents or your siblings have acted, and you’ll notice other people reacting differently than what you’re used to. It’s odd to tweak your personality to make it calmer for those who move more slowly. 

Family is something I have always valued, and when I moved down South, family was the first thing I noticed. They all have routines, whether that’s church on Sundays or designated dinner nights; time is valued more and not rushed. The attitudes are different. Better. Divorce feels common at home, and you don’t meet many divorced people here. It feels like children are serene here. The city feels small yet so inviting, big, and full of opportunities. You start to wonder where you want to settle down because you know you want to be here, and the best part is, there are still so many parts I’m exploring.  

Living in Nashville for some time has brought out sides of me I wasn’t really ready to see in Boston. I feel it every time I visit home. Like I step into a pair of shoes that I have outgrown. I love my family and the neighborhood I grew up in, but I never knew how much I liked being outdoors before I moved, or how much I liked exploring, seeing new places, and learning. I saw my first firefly in Nashville, but Massachusetts is where I took my first steps and learned guitar. I went to school there and met my closest friends there. Friends who have watched me develop in a completely new city, and I have watched them do the same—some in New York and some in Philly.

I have grown up by the ocean, which is still something I’m not quite used to here by the way, but now I catch myself wanting to be by a lake. Once you leave your hometown, I think there’s a part about wanting to forget the hurt and the past, so to do that, it feels like you need to abandon where you’re from and relish in your new environment. When you experience so much new good, it feels impossible to accept where you once were and where a part of you will always be. I am currently dealing with that. It’s addicting, the idea of potential, and finally feeling like you’re getting past potential onto bigger things.

Once you leave your hometown, you’ll realize it’s okay to call two places your home. It’s okay if it takes months or years. Nashville is where I discovered myself, but Boston gave me my building blocks, and who knows where I’ll go next. If you’re thinking about starting over, do it because risk is better than regret!