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As I write this, I’m sitting in the sunny front room of my south Minneapolis home, with a crabby tuxedo cat curled up on my lap. I closed on this house on Friday, Sept. 13, 2019, and despite that ominous date, I’ve made countless wonderful memories in this home with friends and loved ones in the nearly five years that I’ve lived here.
I live near Powderhorn Park, a part of the city so vibrant it feels drenched in technicolor, where I spend my days biking, running, walking my dog, hosting movie nights and dinner parties and bonfires. I know my neighbors. I’m a short bike ride away from many of my friends. I can walk to some of my favorite bars and restaurants, and often do. I sometimes joke that life here can feel like an episode of “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.”
I was born and raised on the East Coast and never thought I’d be able to buy a home. I certainly never planned to end up in a Midwestern city I’d never visited before I turned 26. But since I moved to Minneapolis, I’ve fallen in love with this place, with its artful weirdos and beautiful families, its cat tours and locally famous dogs.
I have received much from the city, and I like to think that I have also given much — documenting its highs and lows, its charms and quirks and challenges, first as an editor at City Pages, and now as an editor/owner with Racket. I don’t know any of us can say with certainty (as the writer of the May 8 Star Tribune Opinion Exchange commentary “The trouble with Minneapolis: Why we’re leaving after all these years” did) that “I have been a positive, contributing citizen of Minneapolis my whole life,” but I have tried to be a force for good wherever possible, a friend to those who need it and a reliable member of my community.
Why am I staying? Frankly, I feel incredibly lucky to live in such a progressive city where I believe that most of our leaders, even when they stumble, are doing their best to govern with equity at front of mind. No city is perfect, and certainly Minneapolis has had its struggles over the last several years. I had my old pickup truck stolen from my alley parking spot a few years ago (don’t worry, it was recovered, and it’s still road-worthy today). That’s life in a big city; you take the good with the bad, and you keep moving forward. Or, I guess, you leave.
But why would I abandon a place that has given me so much — the place where I became the person I am, where I made the most meaningful relationships of my adult life? More pointedly, why would I write a sneering piece for the local daily newspaper about leaving town, as those who are staying attempt to rebuild and learn and grow together after a number of unprecedentedly tough years?