My dear hometown:
First, happy birthday! Look at you, turning 200. When you were founded as a tiny village in the shadow of Fort Harrison, Thomas Jefferson and John Adams were still alive, Rossini premiered his opera "Barber of Seville" in Rome, and you found yourself in the heart of a brand new state. (Happy birthday to you, too, Indiana!) The French explorers found this piece of land cradling the river unique, and called it terre haute, or "high ground." The title stuck, obviously. (They also named the river Ouabache, a transcription of the Miami people's word for it "waapaahšiiki," meaning "it shines white." So, "Wabash" is simply an English transcription of a French transcription of a Miami word. I'm glad you got to keep your French name!)
You're the city that people love to hate, aren't you? Every day I see snarky posts about the trains, and the traffic, and the people who live here, and the paper, and the radio station, and the construction, the school system, the churches, the Family Dollars... on, and on, and on they go. I'm sure every city has its group of disgruntled residents, and the trains are genuinely awful... nevertheless:
I love you.
I was born here, and even though I grew up a few miles away in Brazil, IN, I never felt about Brazil the way that I feel about you. Somewhere along the line in college, I started saying I was from Terre Haute, because people generally knew where that was. The more I said it, the more it became true.
My parents met here. My dad worked at his alma mater, and some of my earliest memories are of his office at Rose Hulman. Going to Terre Haute as a kid meant one of two things: a bad day, if it involved doctors or shoe shopping, or an amazing day with bookstores and Jade Garden. It wasn't long before going to Terre Haute meant going to college. My boyfriend (now husband) and I each took a side of the Wabash, him at Indiana State and me at SMWC. The Paul Dresser bridge was very familiar to us both by the end of four years.
Everywhere I go in town, I see bright bits of my life: the park where we went on our first Valentine's Day date, the coffee shop that knows my family and their orders by name, the library where I first started writing poetry, the gas station whose freezies got my friends and I through college, the bookstore that my best friend and I played hooky to go to on bad days, the highways that were the starting point of so many great adventures, the road signs that meant I was home.
I love you because you are home, Terre Haute. I love that I know how all the streets work. I love that your radio stations are programmed in my car. I love that I have memories tucked away all over the place.
I love your history, and your architecture. I see decades of glamour, evidence of hard times, changing tastes in art and culture all over your buildings and infrastructure. I see them as signs a city has lived through, you know? I think they are beautiful.
I love your artistic side, and how Downtown glows now. I love the posters for the Symphony Orchestra all over building windows. I love that you have parks and trails, poetry readings, potters, painters, singers, musicians, candy makers, boutiques, and cafes. No one expects that of a little "redneck" city, right? I love that you are unexpected. I see you trying, and it every year you get a little more unique, more thoughtful, more proud.
I've meant a few true Hautians over the years, and they all have one thing in common: they want to be here. I didn't "end up" in Terre Haute. I'm not "stuck here" for a few years. I'm thrilled to be back, thrilled to be a part of the community that gave so much to me. You're my city, and I'm proud of you.
As Snapchat would say, you're my Terradise.
Evil trains and all.
XOXO,
The Happy Hautian
