Alley Town

My hometown is an alley town. Each square block is divided—or perhaps conjoined—by an alley. As kids, we spent as much time weaving through these backways and cutting across yards as we did walking on sidewalks or main streets.

Alleys hold stories. They tell them, too.

At 57, I walked the alley behind one of the seven houses I lived in growing up, and I felt those stories pressing in—the ones I lived, the ones that came before me, and those written long after I left.

The laughter, the yelling, the heavy footfalls of a kid running as fast as her muscles and lungs would allow. The screams of joy, the desperate pleas for the bigger kid to stop chasing. The gravel, packed firm by car tires, bike wheels, and years of spilled pop and fallen tears.

I left my hometown at 17 and was stunned to learn that not all towns have alleys. Some don’t even have square blocks. And maybe the biggest surprise of all—not every town is surrounded by miles upon miles of corn and soybean fields. There are many shocks in adulthood, but these were among my first.

Hollywood often paints alleys as dark, filthy, and dangerous, but in my town, they were playgrounds. They were where summer games were invented, where “Ghost in the Graveyard” champions won by daring to slip through poorly lit passageways. Sure, unspeakable things happened in alleys—but more often, they happened in homes, classrooms, and churches. Alleys get a bum rap.

In my town, we even dressed up some of our alleys. We gave them names, added benches, and called them “ways.” I walked these alleys day and night as a child. Walking them now, decades later, feels like going home.

As time passes and we learn to truly know, love, and trust ourselves, the lies we once told ourselves begin to fade, making space for joy. The more we believe in our own lived experiences, the more clearly we see them, and the less hold they have on our present.

I once believed I was disliked—that I didn’t fit in. I now understand that wasn’t true, far beyond my own old belief system. I thought I was ugly. Pictures prove otherwise. I assumed no one would remember me after I left, yet hearing my name called out and feeling the warmth of genuine hugs tells a different story.

It’s unclear why we tell ourselves so many lies, especially in adolescence. Some of them hold on for a long time. Some, maybe forever. But when we finally see them for what they are, we can release them. And the clarity, the peace that follows—those are gifts, welcome whenever they come.

Tears fell on that alley today, mingling with the ones I left there fifty years ago. But these were different tears. They weren’t of loneliness or longing. They were relief. The relief of knowing my truth, of embracing how it shaped me into the kind, funny, giving, and gracious person I get to be today—and for as many tomorrows as I am given.