For the four years I attended high school I rode my bicycle there and back every single day. Without fail I would show up to school between 6:50 and 7:00 in the morning. I would bike through rain, snow, heat, ice, cold, wind, and anything else that stood in my way. Of course there were days were I could not make the trip, either I was too sick or my parents made the executive decision to stop my, often foolish, longing to bike in to school. Regardless, I wanted to bike into school every single day. Seeing my bike chained to the bike rack day in and day out was a source of pride to me. I was proud that I was testing my ability, more deeply my own safety, to take on anything climate had to throw at me.

I was not born in Omaha, Nebraska or even in the Midwest. Instead, my family and I moved here nine months after I was born. Since moving to Omaha I have attended the same school district for K-12, been virtually isolated with the same groups of people (both bad and good), and lived in the same city for the better part of eighteen years.

If I tell people about Omaha and about my life here, I generally tell them negative things. Omaha is boring, dull, dirty, unexciting. Nebraska is what one would expect in a Midwestern farming state; beef and boring fields upon fields of corn and soybean. My stories are often overshadowed by the fact that Omaha has never loved me, and I have never loved it. Omaha and I never jived, indeed after a weekend away for a wedding with family and a short jaunt in Chicago, I arrived back to Omaha with a complete apathy for my home. Driving off the highway made me realize how much I did not want to be here, how little home actually meant to me. At that moment, and for some time prior, I truly hated my home city

I went to school here, I have a house and parents here, I have a few scattered friends around, and I grew up here. Other than basic nostalgia and my basic needs being met, Omaha offers me very little. In four years the demographics of my high school will change beyond recognition. My parents will move on and sell our home. Certainly I grew up here, but I have grown beyond the purviews of my little city. I am growing up in college and the world now.

More importantly however, I was scared of what would be the same. The city has not changed and I doubt it ever will. I do not miss being here, I only miss seeing my mentors and teachers, my family and dog, my friends that I grew up with.

Regardless, I learned to find the rain. For four years I biked into school, there and back, through snow, rain, wind, and heat. Exploring the city on wheels and my own feet allowed me to slow down. My movements around the city paradoxically allowed me to pause and look at the world around me. I remember running through rain so thick I could hardly see, with lighting and thunder booming around me and water up to my ankles. I remember cycling to school in fog so dense bridges an eighth a mile away were shrouded in mystery. I remember looking up to the sky in the dark mornings all alone to the cold, far away stars above. I remember seeing the moon eclipsed in shadow by the sun hidden behind the curves of Earth’s body. I walked through late nights leaving fresh prints in white snow under the oddly bright skies. I would dance under the rain and burrow into the snow. I would watch my breath plume before me as I rhythmically bounced up and down on a run or pumped my legs up major hills.

I learned to find those things no one else cared to see in their business. In so doing, I realized that Omaha is not so deadly dull. Perhaps I knew it from the start. Indeed, Omaha sill owes me somethings. Yes, I was raised here. I still have friends and family I love and care deeply about. Omaha is still my home, for better or worse.