For almost 29 years I have been lost in my own city. Ever since I was a young girl growing up on the streets of Chippewa Falls, I plotted and planned my escape. I was only able to execute this plan my third year of college when I transferred to the UW-River Falls. The ultimate plan, as it had always been, was to get my dream job in the “big city” and to get as far away from home as possible. Why, as I often asked myself, stay in a place with so little culture?

    Then last year, feeling as though I may be taking “the big step” towards something far more grandiose I moved my family to Bloomington, Minnesota, otherwise known as the home of the Mall of America. In my mind, the city had limitless possibilities.

    What I didn’t realize is that the city is not all that glamorous. After six months of tumultuous bad luck ranging from getting my purse stolen to my husband being laid off two jobs, we hung our heads low and accepted our failure. The money had run out and we were forced to return to the place I had been so desperately trying to run from for most of my adult life.

    Back in Chippewa I felt defeated. It seemed as if there were no way out of the place that had been sucking me back to it. Like a black hole Chippewa loomed above, pulling me closer and closer until I would eventually give up and become part of it. It was at this moment I had felt Chippewa had won the epic battle to contain me, and I had lost all hope.

    It was shortly after we first moved back to town that I took up walking to try to win my most recent battle with post-baby weight. It was a dreary Sunday afternoon as I pushed the stroller through downtown. The city looked almost like a ghost town as the rain clouds gathered overhead, and this is where it happened. The town before me seemed to transform and take on a life of its own. Suddenly the old, broken-down houses around me began to remind me of the streets in New Orleans.
 

    I soon found myself reading plaques in front of old buildings that told of a history I had never even cared about or bothered to learn. (I am sure most towns have interesting histories, but one does not often stop to think about them.) As I gathered information about my hometown I felt a bit more comforted by the things I learned. In the up-and-coming weeks I discovered a culture that had been hidden beneath the cracks. I was surprised to find out the many things I had previously missed.    

During my youth I was so overwhelmed by thoughts of leaving that I overlooked some of what makes this place special. How had I never ventured to the Chippewa Valley Museum? Why had I stayed away from The Heyde Center? What about the independent radio stations like WHYS that with a little advertising could possibly become our version of The Current?

    Maybe if I hadn’t been so stubborn back then, I would have listened to my parents, teachers, or community members if they would have told me there was more to do in Chippewa ... Even if we don’t believe our children will find interest in art, music, or local history, it is important to teach them about where they come from and the opportunities that surround them. Giving children the option to enjoy their community may actually persuade them to learn and do more, and to actually give this community a chance instead of being so determined to move on.

    Sure, there are still some things lacking in the Chippewa Valley, but there are also many gems hidden beneath the rough, so to speak. I never gave Chippewa any credit growing up. It was always my opinion that if I wanted any culture I would have to pack my bags and head to the coast or toward the beckoning lights of the city. Now all I have to do is walk out my front door and open my eyes.