It was the sort of question that could only be asked by someone who spent her childhood moving from place to place, and it could only be asked of someone who’d done just the opposite. 

“What’s it like living in the place where you grew up?”

In the moment, I wasn’t sure how to reply. Do I tell her the good parts? The not-so-good parts? The in-between bits that make up a life spent just 15 miles from your starting point?

In the weeks since the question was posed, it’s taken up residence in a corner of my brain, surfacing at random moments as a reminder of where I’ve been and, just as importantly, where I am.

My story is far from unique. I was born here and raised here, living in the same house from birth until the end of high school before departing for college. I lived for a short time in another state before returning to my roots. 

On a national level, fewer than a third of American adults live in the town where they were raised and just about half stay in their home state. As New Yorkers, we buck national trends, however. Nearly three quarters of people raised in the Empire State live here as adults, particularly those of us who hail from upstate.

What calls us to the places where we’re from is as varied as the people who live here. 

What we share is just as varied, but it’s the memories that bind us together most of all, that form the foundation for connection and conversation. 

All you have to do is bring up something from your shared past, a time when something catastrophic occurred or a momentous occasion, and suddenly the stories burst forth. Remember that flood 30 years ago when the kids were all trapped at the school? Of course they do, and they all have a different story to tell.

My version of that flood is missing pieces. While most of my classmates were stuck inside the brick building where I learned to name all the countries in Europe and how to apply the FOIL method to an equation, I’d been sprung from school early and spent the afternoon wandering a downtown filled with water. 

Every time it comes up, old schoolmates share tales of a treacherous drive home or time spent waiting in the gym. In return, I fill in the blank spaces in their own memories with my tales from downtown. 

Here in the place where I grew up, I live among the keepers of my stories.