Baltimore

I grew up in Baltimore. This is my city, even if everyone thinks it’s terrible and needs to be forgotten.

I was born and raised in the suburbs of Baltimore County, Maryland. I was the child of an Iranian immigrant and a white woman, ones who, like many of the people in Baltimore, were left behind by something. My mother’s family moved away as soon as she graduated, leaving her with nothing but the clothes she had and a single bike she received as a graduation gift. My father was attending community college at Howard, studying to become a civil engineer. His father, in the throes of the Iranian Revolution, died, leaving behind a widow, two sons, and a daughter. My father, as the eldest son, was expected to put together the pieces of a broken family while halfway across the world.

And then, at twenty, my mother was pregnant and both of their dreams were shattered. My father would drop out of school. They would be unprepared parents with no resources. And while it worked out for them, becoming successful people who owned a home in the county, each time I ventured into Baltimore City I thought about so many of those who didn’t make it out.

This was my first time actually walking in the city in a long time; the last time I was here was two-ish years ago, when my friend from the Iowa Writing Program I went to (it’s called the Summer Institute) and I did a meet up for Restaurant Week. We went to Miss Shirley’s then and got the three course meal, and, while waiting for our turn to be seated, we wandered Inner Harbor.

A lot of my experiences in the city actually relate back to Inner Harbor—it was deemed safe by my protective, cautious parents who that that the city was a terrible place where people went to be murdered. On senior ditch day in high school, my friend and I went and got breakfast at Miss Shirley’s then walked to the aquarium, where we stared at the puffin enclosure for the equivalent of thirty minutes.

On this particular day, I had a photoshoot with a photojournalist and the managing editor of the my college’s magazine, Hue. I got an email a bit after I was named a recipient of the Critical Language Scholarship asking that they wanted to interview and feature me in the magazine, and, me being me, I said yes. After talking to the photographer they hired on the phone a week later, it was decided that in a month we would meet in front of the Enoch Pratt Library on Cathedral Street to take pictures.

My sister and I planned appropriately. Once the photoshoot would be over, we would drive to the Miss Shirley’s in Roland Park to eat a nice brunch, then we would be home in time for our finals obligations (this happened to be scheduled on finals week). I tucked my camera into my bag and we set off at eight thirty in the morning to meet our nine thirty call time.

As I leaned against the columns of the Basilica, I saw the homeless people venturing at the women’s shelter next door. One woman, as my sister shivered against a brick wall, watching me pose for the camera, offered her a bunch of pants. Said they didn’t fit her, so she wanted them to go to use for someone who would want them. My sister would refuse the pants, because they were Size 10 and definitely did not fit her, but once the shoot was done she raved about how kind that woman was to do that, despite being homeless.

The photoshoot would be two hours. I felt out of place, as we shot in five different locations around the library’s exterior, and I was dressed quite nicely. It was forty degrees and chilly, and I was in a skirt and blazer, shivering as I tried to pose for the camera. People stopped and stared. They probably thought I was famous.

I’d never been to this part of Baltimore before, and although I went briefly, I’m glad I did.

I imagine I will be going into Baltimore many times in my future, whether it’s for volunteering, school, or my research. I was never really exposed to the city I grew up around during my childhood, as my parents avoided it like the plague.

It’s such a beautiful city, with a lot of heart and soul. The people in it are kind but misunderstood. The architecture is unique and distinct from other cities in the United States, while there is such a rich and deep cultural heritage in this city. It’s one of the most important cities in American history, but now we stain it with the impacts of racism and discrimination, the reason why Baltimore is the way it is.

I love my city and I am proud of it. While I only got this brief encounter with her, when I am capable of driving (I’ll get my license someday, I swear!) I’ll probably go and wander around her more. But, for now, I take these tantalizing pictures and admire her beauty.