Writer Catherine Meyer is not the Chicago native others may think she is. This is her confession.
I’m not a real Chicagoan — not even from the suburbs. I’m from Grand Rapids, Michigan and I secretly hope no one can tell.
I have a tendency to immerse myself in a pretend Chicagoan identity. I complain about the Red Line delays as if they’re an everyday occurrence for me. I restrain myself from taking touristy photos of the Chicago River or the towering skyline.
When I’m on excursions in the Loop, I speed walk past the confused out-of-town families grouped together by the curbs. I want them to think I’m a real city girl, strutting with purpose down the streets of Chicago.
I tilt my phone away from them so they can’t see Apple Maps on my screen pointing me in the right direction.
Sometimes I fear they’ve seen me mapping my route and I pocket my phone to make it seem like I don’t need directions to navigate around Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. This usually results in a missed turn or getting completely lost — but at least I look like a local while doing it.
Small victories.
When my family visits, I pretend to know the ins and outs of the L train. I offer them transfer options between the lines that’ll cut down travel time. I don’t tell them I found the suggested travel route beforehand.
I speak of the Cubs and Bears like they’re my hometown teams. I impress everyone with my mentions of Bears quarterback Justin Fields — neglecting to mention his is the only name I know. I’ve finally nailed down the difference between the two teams’ logos, though.
I even take the Chicago act back to Michigan — much to my family’s annoyance.
One time, my dad announced his plan to attend an event held at the Grand Rapids Art Museum, or the GRAM.
“The GRAM’s nice, but it’s certainly not The Art Institute of Chicago,” I told him.
I received the title of “Major Smart-Ass” for that comment. It’s a name I wear with pride, though, because I’m sure many other real Chicagoans have heard the same thing.
Despite my big city efforts, there are still times when I’m a proud Michigander.
Every time I pass the Donovan Reading Room in Loyola’s Cudahy Library, I catch a glimpse of the Midwest mural on the wall. One of Michigan’s Great Lakes is wrongfully labeled “Lac des Ilinois.” I take that as a personal affront.
I raise my voice slightly above a whisper to air my grievance — “Lake Illinois, really? It’s Lake Michigan. They can’t take that from us.”
My non-Michigander friends don’t seem to understand my rage. I bet they’d even support Wisconsin calling itself “The Mitten State” instead of Michigan — the nerve of some states, really.
On train trips home, I board Amtrak’s Pere Marquette line wearing a University of Michigan zip-up while carrying a Michigan-themed Trader Joe’s bag.
A purposeful signal to the other passengers, my outfit alerts onlookers: “I’m going home.”
Despite all the time spent playing pretend, that’s what Michigan is to me — home.
Though it might take a little longer to get used to, Chicago is my second home.
I wasn’t born here. I’ll admit — I don’t know the neighborhoods or the hidden gems around town. I don’t even know which direction I should take on the Blue Line. Regardless, it’s my home.
I have a community here and I know the best cafes in Andersonville — and maybe that’s enough for now. Why pretend to know Chicago when I could just enjoy the thrill of exploration and learning?
I’m not trying to erase my Michigander identity, either. All my summers on freshwater beaches and up north in Traverse City form a crucial part of who I am. I love pointing out my home city on the palm of my hand.
I have roots that hug the curve of Lake Michigan from Chicago to Grand Rapids. I’m only just beginning to build my foundation in the heart of Illinois — I need to offer my small-city self some grace.
For now, I’ll relish in my ability to have two homes — both equally important to me, just in different ways.
And maybe one day I’ll be able to walk past Millenium Park without taking a selfie by The Bean.
Featured image by Amber Cerpa / The Phoenix
