Pennsylvania is typically a dead-end answer to the “where are you from” question that dominates most conversations during the turn of the semester. It’s most frequently met with a kind nod, a giving reassurance that the individual is aware of Pennsylvania’s existence, before promptly moving on to the next question in the meeting-someone-new script.
A rare reply comes in the form of someone mentioning their aunt lives in Pittsburgh or the possible New Jersey connection. But every once in a while, my Pennsylvania answer — saying I’m from Philadelphia, more specifically — triggers wide eyes and an in-depth conversation about how ‘Boston is in desperate need of a Wawa’ and how ‘I would kill to eat a hoagie with Ben Franklin himself.’
Truthfully, I am more of a Philadelphia advocate when I am far away from home, but that only adds truth to distance making the heart grow fonder.
Yes, I do feel connected to Philly, but when all is said and done, telling my discussion sections and the peers I sit next to in lecture that I am from Philadelphia is simply a lie.
One would find your classic suburban-rural town 45 minutes north of Philadelphia. The last possible stop on the train out of Philly, and the farthest one from Philadelphia while maintaining the statement that it’s still Philadelphia.
I am from Doylestown. The only thing that gets less of a reaction than replying with “Pennsylvania” is replying with “oh, you know, a Pennsylvanian suburb.”
Nonetheless, I love where I am from. Doylestown has a town center akin to that of Stars Hollow from “Gilmore Girls,” with an old-fashioned movie theater and too many ice cream shops. The surrounding land is filled with farms and horses, providing hours’ worth of idealistic back roads to drive on.
There are certain spots in Doylestown I feel immense ownership over. One is the apple orchard down the road from my high school, where I rewarded myself with a caramel apple a few too many times in the fall of senior year.
Most notably, the yellow house that’s across from my preschool. The yellow house is, appropriately, painted yellow. For reasons unknown, the house must be met with a verbal cheer every time my mom and I pass it. I am not kidding. Without fail, we’ve excitedly proclaimed “yellow house” every time we’ve driven by since I was barely out of diapers.
I’ve never been one of those kids that talked aimlessly about how they “needed to get out of this town.” But I knew I wanted to experience something different in college, like actually living in a city rather than lying about it. Thus, the move to Boston was bittersweet.
Having nothing but love and appreciation for where I grew up, it became all too easy to fall into being homesick, like so many college students do. The city was overwhelming, and I felt as though I was sharing it with the world. I longed for the comfort of my little town — a place I had all to myself.
I discovered Brookline through the excitement of going to Trader Joe’s. The walk from my dorm on Boston University’s West Campus to the Coolidge Corner Trader Joe’s toured me through what felt like home — neighborhoods of cute houses with families walking their dogs and kids playing outside.
Going to Trader Joe’s became an immediate escape from feeling overwhelmed in the city. I could call my mom and look at porch swings, then end my trip with a dark chocolate almond butter cup — it was a win-win situation!
One house in particular brought me a wave of calm during my walk to and from the grocery store. A yellow house. I found my very own Brookline yellow house. Perfectly painted to fit the name and smuggled in between two plain colored houses, intensifying the choice of hue.
There will be a yellow house in every town I visit. Leaving Doylestown doesn’t mean abandoning home. It is a chance to see how the quirks of Pennsylvania can reinvent themselves in other places of the world.
My yellow house in Brookline is mine. My comfort. My security. My seed of home.
