MAGGIE STEWART

I drive to school and I look upon my city. My city. Never have I claimed it as mine until this morning. And although the streets are imperfect, crawling with orange barrels and flashing signs, the streets belong to me. It is not mine because I drive along the streets, but because I have ventured them by foot and because I have come to know them. It has taken me seventeen years to do so, long since I had learned their names and the directions they run. I have felt the asphalt burn the bottoms of my feet and the soles of my shoes melting into the pavement. 

I know the restaurants and who owns them and what sorts of developments are going to spring up. I know where to get the best burger in town, which movie theater to go to so as not to pay for a ticket, which park is least crowded, and which church has the shortest Sunday mass. I know where to park when I go downtown. I know where the good concerts are played, which gas station is easiest to turn right out of, which stores check IDs and which don’t. 

But greater than this, I know the people that reside in my city. I know how to get to my old boyfriend’s house from both the east and the west. I know the mayoral candidates and the whereabouts of my grandpa at all hours. The people of my city hurry so that they may later rest. They bask in the sun that reflects from the Arkansas River and off the trail that runs alongside it. Tulsa people are active people. They shop along 15th street and Peoria Avenue. They enjoy a new ice cream shop or viral cookie store. The people in my city attend bike races and operas and like to eat out. 

The mayor of my city is the sun. It is an unavoidable truth and the center we spin around. Cars and pedestrians and homeless and riders of public transportation. The sun is like water. It is stronger than the winds that tug at our shirts and the clouds that reside over head. 

My city is prone to storms. There are annual uprootings of trees. This is when the streets will soon be clogged with white electrical trucks. They are like snowflakes, but louder, each with a different ladder atop or length of cherry picker. I count them as they pass – thirty two, one hundred and two, one hundred and thirty two. 

“Did you feel emotional the first time you drove in Sacramento? I did, and I wanted to tell you, but we weren’t really talking when it happened.”

I know when we are home because of the series of turns we make. First, off of I-44, then onto Lewis, then twenty-seventh place, then up the driveway. I know the slope of things even in my sleep. 

There are roughly one million residents of my city, (including those of nearby suburbs). It is equivalent to St. Louis, or St. Paul, or Indianapolis. The residents claim that they deserve an NBA team, because we are large and growing and it would bolster the economy, yet many won’t drive the hour and a half to Oklahoma City to watch the team they have. In my city, homelessness is a battle we fight daily. “Unhoused”, they call them now. So they try to make contracts to build cheaper living and renovate hotels to accommodate. But the real battle is crime, is mental illness, is drug addiction, and how can you solve those problems with cheaper housing?

The police here ride on motorcycles. They are strict about speed limits, particularly on the first Wednesdays of each month before 9am. Why they’re focused on speeders rather than larger-scale crimes, I’m not sure. 

My city gets excited about film. Particularly Scorcese’s “Killers of the Flower Moon”, as it was filmed here. There was much chatter about Leonardo DiCaprio’s whereabouts. My city was pissed about Tulsa King, as it was actually filmed in OKC. My city attends the drive-in movie theater to celebrate The Outsiders and praises S.E. Hinton perhaps more than she is worthy of. The book reads like it was written by a seventeen year old. Regardless, we are a city of pride. 

My city is called Tulsa and it belongs to me. If I could hold it between my thumbs, I would gladly do so. I would like to inspect its ridges and bumps and corners. 

I belong to Tulsa just as it belongs to me. It has held me in its palm for seventeen years. It is ink spilled, drilled, needled into my arms. My city has raised me, and for that I am grateful. I am currently unsure of why it took me so many years to claim Tulsa as my own, and why it occurs now, shortly before my departure. I guess I was too focused on what lies ahead rather than where I currently am. I have planted my feet in Tulsa’s soil, and here they are to remain, in my city, until I come back to collect them.