Shallow Roots

I pulled myself from the ground and will keep running

Ashley Sudeta

I’m from a place where the corn controls the weather. Look it up, it’s real. In the summer months, the great, sweeping fields draw in rain and humidity, almost like they’re thirsty. It’s strange. Nebraska is a perfectly fine place for corn as is, but the needy crops always want more. Those little things pull everything they can from the earth and sky, constantly growing and yearning. I want to shout, “Stop wanting! You’re just corn! What do you need so badly?”

Now, imagine if instead of ears, a stalk of corn grew feet and walked away. Why should anything live in a place where it has to make its own rain? And when you think about it, so many places have more water than Nebraska. That’s the thing about growing up in the kind of flyover state that even other flyover states look down on—anywhere else always seems better than home. I don’t know if the corn in Minnesota is any happier than the corn in Nebraska, but you can tell yourself it is — just to make the trek seem worth it.

But what would a stalk of corn do if 10,000 lakes wasn’t enough? What if everything meant to be an improvement was just another change? When does the itch go away and putting down roots stops sounding like a curse? Can something so desperate ever feel like it has enough? Will I ever find a place I don’t want to escape?

I could be from anywhere and I’d probably still be screaming to run away, but there’s something about growing up in the Midwest that makes your hometown so easy to resent. It almost feels like an obligation. Maybe it’s all those ideas we’re fed about opportunity. We’ll always feel it in our chests that our dreams are out there waiting, just beyond the endless, tassel-topped waves.