Michelle writes about not being able to go anywhere in town without seeing someone she knows. Little Rock was always like that for me, too. (As was North Little Rock. As was Sherwood.) And for me, it was almost never just that I saw someone I knew. I was always Cheryl’s daughter, Jimmy Lee’s daughter, Roseanne’s granddaughter. Known as myself and as all my relations as well — a fact that means I got discounted auto maintenance and am most likely banned from a certain pizza joint in town, both on grounds that have nothing to do with me. It was nice in many respects, but annoying in many others. I’m an introvert, and I’m also the sort who tends to go to the store wearing sweats and a ponytail, which is not necessarily appreciated in the South*. Grocery store sightings always made me consider hiding behind the Cheeto rack.

Whenever I traveled I revelled in the fact that I could walk down the street absolutely unknown — even near-invisible (as invisible as a tall, sturdily-built redhead can be, anyway.) When we moved here last summer, I loved the fact that nobody knew me. Nobody in the stores, nobody at the movies. No shouts of “Miz Kennedy!” by people who couldn’t remember my first name, but who knew I looked an awful lot like my grandmother or aunt or daddy and wanted to inquire after them. (Miz Kennedy* is my grandmother, dammit. I never have managed to answer to the name or equate it with myself, which always made me seem rude to people who hollered it to me. They thought I was ignoring them.) Just silence in which to move through the city. Sweet anonymity.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, Mister Boyfriend and I were grocery shopping and a voice called “Hey!” and there we were in a dairy-aisle conversation with someone we knew. It was sort of nice to have lived here long enough to run into an acquaintance, and also sort of sad to see the anonymity go. And then this past week I got Minnesota plates for my car.

I guess we live here now.

*I have never seen my grandmother without makeup and full hair, and I have certainly never seen her in sweats. And as I think back on it, many of my friends wouldn’t go pick up milk without at least brushing their hair and putting on lipstick.
**You Yankees may not know that a Southern woman remains “Miz” all her life. It’s both dialect and manners and ... hell, it’s too complicated to explain.