On a recent flight back to Buffalo, I ran into someone I went to high school with. We were both coming home to see family and we had a great talk–caught up on gossip, reminisced about a senior prank gone horribly and hilariously wrong, found out that we were both working in similar industries–we even compared playlists and found we both still listened to pretentious pop music from our teens. It was one of those rare but treasured occurrences in travel, an unexpected and enjoyable conversation you don’t want to end.
My friend asked where my folks lived as he was renting a car and wanted to offer to drive me home. When I told him my parents lived on the East Side, he paused and the look of his face was not one of surprise or contempt but confusion. He kept asking for streets and points of reference trying to figure out where on the East Side someone could come from that he had so much in common with. He all but asked, “So, there are nice parts over there?”
My dad picked me up that day. And on the way to my folks’ house, I wondered if I had used distance and nostalgia to romanticize where I came from–airbrushed a blighted shell of a neighborhood riddled with drugs and crime into a proud working-middle class community. It’s something I’ve been wondering about since–ever since today. I asked my dad if he’d take his camera and drive around the neighborhood and take a few shots so I could once and for all come to terms with the reality of where I’m from.
My dad’s shots validated what I remember of my hood. And I thought I’d share them because I know lots of kind and considerate and otherwise pretty together people just don’t know that while there are lots of challenged areas on the East Side, there are lots of great parts too.