Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

Growing up, my relatives were far-flung: a set of grandparents deep in Texas, another in Virginia and outcrops of cousins across the Eastern Seaboard.  No one but my nuclear family lived out West in Oregon and so, to me, seeing family meant long plane rides and winter delays all for brief weekends with people I loved without knowing very well.  My parents built a life in Portland far from their original homes—a life that was worth the distance. We existed as a four-person unit miles away from anyone else who shared our blood. From my point of view, a generation removed, this cross-country family situation was normal; I knew nothing more intimate.  We saw each other when we saw each other.   Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles were an occasional, special presence—not every day, never ordinary.  

This is the norm for many people, but in the past few years I’ve started to wonder whether it needs to be mine.  I come from a city I love, one whose cool factor develops much faster than my own, and my family is not one from which to run.  But in spite of every reason to stay put, I find myself very far away.  My motive for distance is not linked to escape.  There was no boring suburb, no great familial dysfunction that I needed to mediate with miles, but from a young age, I knew I would leave home. My parents did it, and so would I. My first move was mild and contained: a 2-hour flight or 20-hour drive to Southern California for four short years. At the end, though, a country full of new cities opened up and I found myself in Boston then New York. Three years later, I still find myself a day’s worth of travel and three time zones away from my beloved city and beloved family.  In most every way, this is the right choice for right now, but around the holidays—the most family-oriented time of year—I take pause.  

I start thinking about distance when seeing my family a few times every year means two $50 cab rides, a $500 flight, a possible delay because of weather, bad airport food at Newark and a pit in my stomach when I have to say goodbye after a week. This is when I start to question whether it’s worth it.  Right now, the answer is resoundingly yes, but I wonder if this yes will expire.  The more enmeshed you get in a city—its jobs, its friends, its men, its beauty—it becomes harder and harder to leave.  But the solution can’t be to leave somewhere before you start to love it too much. That’s low-level depravity.  Then again, if you do want to move back home, the window of opportunity might not be forever open. The Internet, iMessage and Skype give those of us living far away a false sense of closeness--like maybe we could do this forever.  Even with cellphones, 4,000 miles is still 4,000 miles. 

It’s hit me recently that I can make the choice to live close to my family, to make relatives a year-round presence, not a holiday rarity. It’s weird to think that the decisions I make now have the power to reverse a trend for the next generation. My parents don’t pressure me, but I know it’s on their mind, too.  While they’re proud to have a daughter living in the big city, they’re also wondering when she’s coming back. When I mention a new boy, my mom always asks, half-teasing: “Is he Jewish?” Now she’s added on a more-pressing query: “Is he from the West Coast?” If not, “How does he feel about Portland?”