Emmanuel Ballesteros details his impassioned experience growing up in Sacramento.
Last December I went to the Philippines for the first time in 22 years. I don’t have anything negative to say about it except I didn’t have that flashy, life-defining moment that many of my family members did upon visiting the disturbingly-titled “homeland.” I know I’m not alone in this experience, but it’s difficult to romanticize a country that you’ve had zero attachment to since birth, yet everyone tells you is the source of everything your identity is rooted in. It feels wrong.
Those 22 years were spent in Sacramento, California: also known as the stop between San Francisco and Reno. Almost everyone I’ve spoken to from Sacramento has negative things to say about the city, which isn’t surprising given its melancholic and enclosed nature. To put it bluntly, no one leaves.
Once you’re born in Sacramento, it’s easy to get caught in the trap. You have everything you’ll ever need within the suburb state: various food places, acceptable education, and friends who think the same, in that they’re nihilistic, but hopeful enough to dream outside Northern California. It’s a city close to everything, but far from the opportunities needed to succeed. This is the experience of most people I know — especially the ones who left.
Despite that, I’m protective of my home. After coming back from the Philippines, I kissed the rotting grass of Land Park and walked the streets which formed who I am today. I left Sacramento for Berkeley during my transfer year of community college, but it’ll always be my home. My industrial, never-changing, depressing home. It’d be nice to see the locals smile once in a while though.