This Town

There isn’t enough room in this fucking town. Too many cars on the road, too many people in the streets. Too many bad landlords and musty clubs. Too many deadbeat townies and entitled students. Everyone has an opinion of Morgantown: it’s rusty, it’s dusty. It’s too boring, it’s too wild. It’s hard to pin down what exactly Morgantown is to the diverse set of people that inhabit it. That being said, this town is an intersection, a rest stop, for so many people. Morgantown is never really an intentional destination. You always just “end up” there for one reason or another. How did I end up here, in this small town packed to the brim?

I wasn’t supposed to go West Virginia University. I feel like that’s a common feeling for people I’ve talked to, though admittedly it’s not a very large sample size. West Virginia isn’t exactly a sexy or well known state outside of sports, and the high acceptance rate and party reputation makes people doubt the quality of education (as if all public universities don’t meet some minimum standard of excellence). Yet here I am, enrolled in the university, for better or for worse. Despite being a pretty poor student in highschool, I aimed high college wise, applying to around eleven in total: six in United States and five in the United Kingdom. Since this was the first major decision I was making in my life, I had this idea that the more schools I applied to the more choices I would have. Little did I know at the time, there was more to choosing a college than simply getting in.

There’s too many people in this fucking town. I’m sure if you’ve ever driven here you’ve said that to yourself at one point or another. Being a town in West Virginia, my sister had this expectation that it was full of white racist southerners and worried about me living there as a Hispanic man. Thanks to the university however, there is no visible pattern to the people that you might come across. One moment you might be talking to someone with a classic Texan accent; another you might be talking to someone who barely speaks English. I suppose if you’ve ever lived in a large city or even another college town you might have experienced this phenomenon; however, given that Morgantown is a small town in the middle of the Appalachian region, it never ceases to surprise me.

I remember the first time I visited Morgantown. And by Morgantown, I really mean the University. It was rainy and humid, much like right now, and nearly every other day in this town. After a long trip from my home in Richmond, Virginia, I was sitting on the tour bus with my parents, seeing the things that the university wanted me to see. Which for the most part meant that we saw very little of the town itself. Instead, as we traveled through the snaking roads and steep hills, we witnessed such riveting sights like Woodburn hall with its signature dusty red bricks and clock tower. Then came the especially modern recreation center that I would spend my future days walking through to get to class. The one destination that really stuck with me was the towers housing complex, where a student shouted loudly: “WVU sucks!” as we walked by. I hadn’t chosen where I was planning on going to school by that point, but I remember thinking to myself something along the lines of: “In some poetically messed up way, I’m gonna end up going to this place.”

There’s too many clubs in this fucking town. Yet somehow I am constantly told that there is nothing to do here. Those people aren’t wrong I guess. In the absence of more interesting things, alcoholism is a very attractive hobby. I’ve given up on counting the amount of active bars and clubs that pop up and close down around the downtown area. On weekend nights, the streets are packed with students and townies alike, looking for a good time in one form or another. For the sports minded, there are tailgates and sports bars to drink at. For the more hip students, frat houses are the main drinking hotspots. I personally choose to drink in the dusty old neighborhoods with the other “alternative” students. For the teetotalers out there, I’m not really sure what else you could do in this town. Or at least, I’ve never cared enough to find out.

I wrestled a lot with deciding where I was going to go to school. Out of the five United Kingdom universities I applied to, I miraculously was accepted to four (most likely because they didn’t need to see my embarrassingly bad transcript). I had my heart set on Durham University, an ivy league university with an ivy league price tag. The grandiose Norman architecture was enthralling to me, and the strength of its Computer Science program made it a top pick for me. Going to school internationally however, wasn’t something economically feasible considering I was going to be picking up most of the bill myself. I remember acutely the feeling of opening a letter from West Virginia University, knowing in the back of my mind that the scholarship I was offered was too good to pass up. I had a choice to make, and in the end I made the economically responsible one.

There’s too many hills in this fucking town. I’ve never felt the need to visit the gym while living in Morgantown. No matter my destination, there’s always a guarantee that there will be at least two uphill slogs. It’s especially bad if you ever have to get to the downtown center of campus: every incoming path has a hill. You can choose the shortest distance and face the steep set of stairs, or you can choose to approach from the downtown area and face a long, but more gradual slope. I end up walking a lot as a consequence of not owning a car, and I’m sure everyone here that does the same has amazing calves. Morgantown wouldn’t be the same without its characteristic hills. They are a constant reminder of the tiring nature of the this town.

I was exhausted after the six hour drive it took to when I finally moved to Morgantown. Not only because of the journey, but because of all the years I was boxed in those Virginia suburbs. I had always hated living there, and I had an intense desire to get as far away from my hometown as possible. Moving to another country would have accomplished this easily, but I guess settling with Morgantown wasn’t such a bad idea either in retrospect. Morgantown runs antithetical to the suburbs in about every way. For one thing, the suburbs are flat and spralling; so spralling that it’s impossible to get anywhere in a reasonable fashion without a car. In Morgantown, the public transportation situation is quite nice if you’re a student, and the horribly steep hills made everything be built compactly, and thus easy to traverse on foot. There’s also a sense of community missing from the suburbs; rarely do I ever come across a familiar face when going about my day. Morgantown is so central and focused that it’s impossible for me to go about my day without running into someone I know.

Sports never seem to stop in this fucking town. It sometimes feels like I’m the only one that doesn’t seem to care about WVU football. During the spring semester, I only tend to keep track of when the football games start and end, lest I become trapped in the sea of blue and gold wearing the non-standard colors. It’s not like I don’t understand the obsession that people have with sports. It’s an easy thing to get hyped up about, and as I said before: it’s a convenient excuse to drink. Still, being woken up by someone blaring Country Roads at 7am on a Saturday makes me somewhat loathe the sports-fanatical culture. I’m sure if I was a sports fan Morgantown would be heaven for me, but there’s nothing I can really do about that.

I wonder if my first semester in Morgantown is considered abnormal or not. My assigned roommate at Arnold hall dropped out before the semester even started, so I had an entire room to my own self. Having that much space all to myself would have been amazing if Arnold hall was even a little decent, but there was no air conditioning in the entire building so I was mostly just hot for a while. Being away from the suburbs for the first time was a strange experience for me. Living downtown meant that I had access to anywhere I could walk, and I never really felt like I was trapped in my house like I was in the suburbs. This was all too much for young me to process however, and it took me a while to appreciate how lucky I was to be in the heart of Morgantown. I spent most of my time happily locked in my dorm room.

There’s too many homeless people in this fucking town. If you look closely enough, you can see some of the metal anti-homeless spikes that line previously flat pieces of concrete on high street, or the benches with “convenient” arm rests placed in the middle. Every time I see those disgustingly cruel pieces of architecture I visualize a group of men in a room, deciding how much money they are willing to spend to deprive the homeless of a spot to lie down on. I’ve never volunteered at a homeless shelter or anything, much less even acknowledged the existence of a man who “just needed change for the meter,” so I guess I shouldn’t really be claiming moral high ground anyway.

I remember the day I started to form an appreciation for Morgantown. A friend had recommended me a restaurant in the downtown area, which conveniently was only a short walk away. Slowly making my way down high street, I took note of the many interesting sights: homeless people sitting on the steps of a baptist church, a coca-cola branded mural, and a man blasting his music loud enough for everyone in the entire town to hear. After a short while, I arrived at my destination; a small hole in the wall restaurant on one of the side streets. As I walked in, I was greeted not only by the woman at the counter, but the chef in the back too. In the corner, daytime Japanese television played next a wall that proudly displayed pictures of the menu items. Two entire walls had shelves filled with Japanese books, and the tiny dining space was packed full of happy patrons. While I sat down and ate my meal, one thing stood out to me more than anything else: as customers would leave, the chef would be sure to thank each and every one of them. I wonder how many total times Yama has thanked me considering I manage to eat there almost every other week.

There’s too many familiar faces in this fucking town. It seems like I can’t go anywhere without seeing someone whose existence I must awkwardly acknowledge: the man in a cowboy hat who picks up trash along high street. The baristas at the coffee shop I frequent on a daily basis. The guy I met at a party once who also frequents said coffee shop. You’d think it would be easy to avoid people in a place as big as Morgantown, but if you hang out at the same spots all the time I guess it’s kind of inevitable that you’ll see the same people. I should be more appreciative of those familiar faces, especially the man in the student union who gives me a joyous “have a wonderful day,” as I pass by his office. Due to the nature of Morgantown, there’s too many faces I’ve grown to like that have just disappeared, never to return.

I have lived in Morgantown for three years now, and I still don’t know if I made the right choice in coming here. In the moment, you could say I made the right choice, but would I have done the same if I knew what I know now? Even with the benefit of retrospect, I’m not too certain. I’ve got nothing but good things to say about the quality of the education at WVU, and the town needs the university just as much as the university needs the town. One thing is certain in my mind: once I leave, I’ll never forget Morgantown and the people who have inhabited it.

There isn’t enough room in this fucking town. Too many familiar faces. Too many good weekends. Too many nice people and their nice small business. Too many conversations struck up by strangers. Too many good places to eat. Too many comfy concert venues. Morgantown is as easy to love as it is to hate, but I didn’t know that going in. Maybe you have your own “Morgantown,” or maybe you’re still waiting for it to show up. Either way, it’s never too late to take some time to look around your own town.