the lecture notes are unkemptly strung across my dorm room table. My eyes glaze over the content I am supposed to memorize, allowing my mind to wander. Memories of home engulf my brain. Of family and friends. Of Slurpees and socials. My fingers drift towards my computer so they can do what has become second nature on occasions like this. I switch the song to a tune conducive to my thoughts.
Late afternoon another day is nearly done
A darker grey is breaking through a lighter one . . .
The lyrics resonate. You see, for me, music tends to be a mindless escape. A song’s rhythm often instils motivation toward the task I must accomplish, but its words are a silent echo. They are meaningless. I do not listen to the rhymes strung or the deep meaning behind each ballad. But this song is different. When I listen, I hang on every syllable.
. . . And in the dollar store,
the clerk is closing up
And counting loonies trying not to say
I hate Winnipeg . . .
Winnipeggers know it, and most love it. The Weakerthans play off of the city’s old tourism slogan “One Great City” is a brilliant inside joke. The hometown indie rockers do not hate the city they were born in — they love it. Blemishes and all. “One Great City” is the greatest ode ever penned to Winnipeg.
When I get homesick, it has become a formality to play that song on a repetitive loop. You see, I moved away, like so many of us claim we will do. I went to Halifax to continue my studies. I had no real issues with home, but I had to leave. I had to try life on my own. Sure, I would miss the familiarity of slapping mosquitoes on a summer day; nevertheless, I had to depart.
I do not regret it. It has been a learning experience and a half. Not only because I imposed myself on a new environment, but because I realized how much I missed home.
It is funny that I actually consider Winnipeg home even though I never had an address there. I lived in a small community to the south, but maybe because I worked and studied in the “Peg,” I associated with the city more than my hamlet. Yes, I would like to be labelled as a Winnipegger. But don’t flatter yourself River City, there isn’t a line-up of people like me.
I did not anticipate I would miss the city. The frigid temperatures that shiver the spine, construction projects that seemingly last years, our claim to fame as Canada’s murder capital and a decaying North End does not make anyone nostalgic. Neither will brutal drivers, incessant potholes or the Blue Bombers.
Yet, I miss it. I yearn to complain about the above with people that can relate. I crave an Italian dish on Corydon, a skate at the Forks or a stroll through the Exchange. I miss reading the broadsheet version of the Free Press, mocking the University of Winnipeg and avoiding a slide through icy intersections. I miss catching cheap flicks at Cinema City, slowing down at every red light camera, and our politeness, almost to a fault.
What I recited about Winnipeg is not out of the ordinary for other regular-sized cities. Different urban centres have sports teams, bad drivers and historical centres, too. We are not necessarily unique. What we share as Winnipeggers, wannabees of the title or not, is a history: shared experiences of growing up inside the perimeter’s confines, knowledge that cannot be duplicated on a promotional pamphlet or extolled on a TV commercial. We are not all boosters of this place. However, it is the memories that connect us — good and bad.
I have had trouble defending Winnipeg to friends in my new school. I’m used to scorning it at any opportunity. Sadly, though, it will remain difficult to describe. Winnipeg is great because of the memories I can recall of it. A great home sometimes cannot be put into words.
At the very least, I can say we’re better than Saskatoon.
