I lived the first part of my adult life in Baltimore, Charm City, the City that Reads (the City that Breeds), the Greatest City in America (this was really a slogan on billboards and benches while I lived there; I love B-more, but not that much). If you’ve seen a John Waters movie, you know something of Baltimore trash. Trash in Baltimore is not a bad thing; it’s celebrated! Put on too much blue eyeshadow! Hike up that skirt! Wiggle your ass in too-high pumps on cobblestone and glassphalt streets!
When I lived with a friend on St. Paul Street in Mt. Vernon (the trendy/trashy gay area of town), just weeks before I left Baltimore for the desert, we had a big going-away party for me. We started at noon and drank and partied for over 12 hours. Then, we woke up at 8am to a friend who’d sleept over screaming, “Get UP! Get OUT! Fire!” This particular friend is manic-depressive and I’ve known her since kindergarten, so please don’t take offense, dear reader, that my first thought was, “Oh god, please don’t have a manic episode right now.”
It was no episode; the built-in bookshelves in the living room were in flames. As my friend who rented the apt. and my screaming friend tried to pour cups of water on the fire (we were 25 and hungover), I grabbed a phone and called 911. I then started down the steps of the rowhouse (that was split into 3 apartments, one on each floor) in my thong. This thong, ironically, had red flames on the front. It is my favorite thong and I still have it. I ran back in and pulled on a robe–black velvet on one side, leopard print faux silk on the other, this robe could cover my breasts or my hips, but not both at the same time. I’m busty. I’m hippy.
But by the time I thought through all of this I was on the street. So were my friends. I had smeared mascara, heavy black liner, and eyeshadow (including several shades of blue) streaked across my eyes. I had dried-on red lipstick on my mouth. I had no bra, and no shoes, and no glasses or contacts. I squinted and couldn’t quite understand what anyone said if they were more than a foot away from where I crouched on the curb. I looked and felt like Baltimore Street Trash.
All ended well enough–not much was lost in the fire, though my friend did lose precious photographs. We had to live in a miserable un-air conditioned second story apartment for two weeks, and her landlords hounded her and treated her like trash (in the not good way), but then we left for New Mexico and she had a two week reprieve from the lack of air conditioning. We spent the two weeks in Baltimore in our g-strings, spraying cold water on each other from hair product bottles. Someone suggested we freeze our underwear before putting it on, it was that hot.
All this is to say that I am, at heart, a Baltimore girl. I grew up in Maryland, about 45 minutes from the city; I went to college in a suburb of the city; and I sowed my first set of wild oats in a city where I had to catch the morning cab o’ shame while standing in front of a bench that read “Baltimore: The Greatest City in America,” to go back to the house I rented that sat a block away from a methodone clinic. Don’t think badly of my neighborhood, please–it is a beautiful area of town with 200 year old rowhouses, an amazing market, and some of the most talented people you’ll ever meet.
So now I live in the desert, and I’m married, and I’m a mom, and I live in a chi-chi neighborhood that requires us to pay a yearly fee for upkeep and cites us if we take our trash can out too early or don’t bring it in by sundown after morning pick-up. We get a monthly newsletter that reminds us to pull weeds and keep property values up. I live in a beautiful house with gorgeous things, but I don’t think I’ll ever fully acclimate. Here comes the impetus behind posting these memories of my hometown:
Tonight, I took a long bath in my jacuzzi tub. I lotioned up afterwards and put on a thin white nightgown and black slippers. I crept downstairs and went out front for a smoke. I was the only person outside at 9pm, as far as I could tell. In Baltimore, in every place I lived before this house, what I did was perfectly normal, except for the jacuzzi tub (anywhere else I lived the bathtub was too small to bother with a long bath). I wondered what the neighbors here would think if they saw me, if they saw the outline of my breasts, my nipples poking throug the thin white of my gown. Of course, they’d probably first be horrified that I was smoking.
They will never take the Baltimore out of this girl.
