A Sense Of Place

Nine months ago, I moved back to Leeds. Not just to the city where I’d been born and raised, but to the area where I spent most of my teens.

Back in those days, I couldn’t wait to leave. The city seemed small and stultifying. It seemed horribly provincial, and there’s probably nothing more deadly to a teenager. So I left, only to return, then leave again for 30 years in America.

But I never felt American. I thought England had shaped me, but that wasn’t true. Leeds had, although I didn’t realise it. I loved Seattle, and for a long time I was settled there. But circumstances change…

Returning to England, I didn’t want to be in Leeds. Going back there would seem like defeat. It took a while, and several novels set in Leeds, which meant plenty of visits to the city, to understand that I felt more comfortable, more at home here than I’d felt anywhere else.

Funny thing, though. I’d anticipated this move, but once here, I felt like I was walking with ghosts – mostly my own young ghost. But we’ve made peace on those streets and in the park. My work might take place in the past, but my life is very much in the present, and whether it’s walking around my neighbourhood or in the city centre, or even something as mundane as taking the bus into town, I realise I’m happy here. Happier than I’ve felt anywhere else. It’s finally sunk in.

I did the right thing to leave all those years ago. But I definitely did the right thing in coming back.

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Imaginary America

America has become a polarised country. When I moved back to the UK, a little over eight years ago, it was edging that way, but since then it seems to have tumbled down a slope, to the point where there’s no common ground between the parties.

When I moved there in 1976 it didn’t seem that way. There were inevitable divisions, and I found myself in Ohio, a fairly conservative part of the country. But it was hardly extreme. It was, really, the place I’d seen on TV shows as I grew up. The houses were all detached, there were even white picket fences, and everyone had a car. Jobs were easy to come by and paid a damn sight more in real terms than I’d made in England.

There were FM radio stations that played rock, a breath of fresh air after living where I could only find what I liked on John Peel’s show or the Old Grey Whistle Test.

I learned to drive and passed my test in a month on the winter Cincinnati roads, where the snow stood a couple of feet deep on either side. I bought my first car, a two-year-old Mustang II with the hatchback, looking very sporty in mustard yellow. We rented an apartment, which was not only unfurnished but came with appliances and a laundry room – you had to have flat-hunted in England in the 1970s to understand.

It was a good place, a gentle place, really. I didn’t understand it at the time, but Cincinnati hadn’t quite dragged itself into the present yet. There were neighbourhoods that still lived in America’ Golden Age of the 1950s. But after what I’d experienced it still seemed like stepping into the future.

Part of my image of America had been born with Easy Rider. The freedom of the roads with a rock’n’roll soundtrack. Not something the Queen City could really offer. But I do recall when I stepped into my imaginary America. It must have been April of the year, a day that began chilly but quickly warmed up. I’d worn my brown leather bomber jacket and put it in the back seat of the Mustang as the temperature rose. I was on Interstate 75, cruising north somewhere, and Springsteen’s Born To Run came on the radio. It was the perfect moment, the one I’d been waiting for without even realising it. Quite suddenly it all came together, and I began to grin. I was in America, in the image that had lurked, half-formed, at the back of my mind. It was real; my imaginary America existed.

That was then, of course. The world’s a very different place now. Since I left I haven’t been tempted to return, even for a visit. These days, much of the America of my imagination is a dark, scary place.