I have a hackneyed joke about Sacramento. “Oh, you’re from Sacramento?” I’d ask. “I’ve never been, so whatever I know about it I learned from ‘Lady Bird.’ And all I remember is that she wanted to leave.”
Outside of being the capital of California, Sacramento is portrayed in Greta Gerwig’s Oscar-nominated movie “Lady Bird” as unremarkably suburban, which describes most residential areas surrounding American cities. Central scenes are spent in the car — a reality I imagine is reflective of growing up in suburbia — including the famous ending when the titular Lady Bird asks her mom, “Did you feel emotional the first time that you drove in Sacramento?” And as she recalls “all those bends (she’s) known (her) whole life” and sprawling greenery whizzes by through her car window, I can’t help but tear up. Because ultimately, the movie lands on the love she has for her small town, despite her desire to move to a city of culture.
The trope of a character moving from a small town to a big city has been done over and over again, and it makes sense. Get out of the unwalkable, monotonous suburb in search of opportunity and vibrancy. Arrive at the city, dirty, loud and expensive, yes, but busy and worth it.
Through “Lady Bird” and other coming-of-age movies depicting suburban Americana, I experience the quaint and nostalgic charm of growing up behind picket fences. Aside from the often discussed perks of safety and comfort, not to mention lower prices per square foot, I wondered what was to love about the burbs.
I hail from the larger-than-life urban jungle of Hong Kong. When I am asked what growing up there was like, I reach for the highlight reel of my teenage experience. I describe busing from school, to piano, to ballet, to dinner, to dessert and to a friend’s apartment. Ingrained in my weekly routine was hopping from one sardined train to another, going up one towering building to the next, rushing from this activity to that, stumbling between restaurants and bars. My family and friends took advantage of a city that was convenient and alive, where the fuss carried on late into the night.
When asked about home, I want to describe it in all its thrilling neon glory. I feel the urge to align my life with the expectations of a city girl, and an international one at that.
Recently, as I transition to life in the United States, I’ve gotten to experience slivers of life in the suburbs. One instance was staying with my cousins in Belmont, where I enjoyed afternoons in the backyard, got lost in enormous malls and lamented not growing up with late-night drives. Then I met my friends at UC Berkeley and visited their homes on the weekends. These suburbanites cited the people as the homemakers, not the place itself, characterizing the suburbs as otherwise boring. Their pride for their home was much subtler than my obligation to live up to city grandeur. After all, “boring” is a word I would not dare use to describe Hong Kong.
Although I didn’t get the full scope of life while there, I was allowed slow mornings and nights that weren’t too different from those at home. When the sun peeked in through the large living room windows, I could imagine waiting for friends to come over for music-filled walks through the hilly neighborhoods. Standing in the driveway, I thought about speeding to In-N-Out Burger late after prom, which I’ve been told is a suburban classic.
Most of all, I appreciated the honesty I experienced. In the suburbs, I couldn’t cling to the glamour of my geography. There was no expectation of thrill. In fact, there was a longing for more that aptly reflected the restlessness inherent to growing up. All the time spent traveling in the car was consistent with the emotional limbo that accompanies coming-of-age. Listening to distant shuffling in a spacious house cemented the loneliness of independence and the side effects of diverging life paths.
And while it felt less frank to yearn for a bigger world when the city around me extended to the heavens, those same feelings were buried deep in my adolescent self. Watching and experiencing suburbia took the city out of the girl. Stripped of the excitement that I grew up around, my growing pains became apparent in an undemanding environment.
Just as Lady Bird was, I was sentimental about familiarity the last time I rode the bus home before college. But it’s not the place, not even the people that made it special. Just the fact that it was mine was enough. Everyone has loved and hated where they grew up at some point; it was comfortable and difficult to varying degrees. And all places are filled with unique charm and nostalgia if enough time is spent there. I just imagine that Sacramento perfectly complements a youth that aches.