“There’s never anything to do around here.”
“I can’t wait to just get the hell out of here.”
“This place plain sucks.”
Those are all the typical starting points for the all too common conversation discussing the place I’m currently living in. The same start to a conversation that the same type of person begins. The pessimistic local that goes with the stereotype that Youngstown is a shit-hole. “What’s there to do in a place like this?”, is what they’ll ask me and I’ll just answer with something like, “You’re just either not looking in the right places or not looking at all.” I’d love to elaborate on the times I have and the people I meet as I stand there with them. As I stand there trying not to literally slap some sense in to them.
I’m in Downtown Youngstown at least twice a week. Whether it’s going to play and listen to local artists at open mic nights on Tuesdays at the Lemon Grove, catching a show, or stopping in to play pool at the Draught House and get some good, cheap beers. And usually I walk into a bar downtown and I’ll see someone I know. Someone I want to talk to. Someone I like interacting with, who has similar interests and usually shares some sort of passion for this city.
It’s two in the morning on a weekend and I’m leaving a show. I’ve had a few Crown Royals, a few Captain and Cokes (diet if I’m feeling disgusting) and definitely a couple choice beers. It’s time to walk into a downtown secret, the Downtown Circle. People ignorant to Youngstown will ask, “Why are you going into a convenient store? You can’t buy beer this late.”
Sometimes they follow me in and sometimes they stand outside smoking their Marbolo Reds or Camel Crushes depending on how long their smoking addiction has been going. Then, I walk out with a cylinder of tin foil. A warm cylinder of tin foil that smells better than anything you can get at Denny’s, Taco Bell, or any late night food joint (those can be called shit holes.) Unwrapped—it’s a gyro. Lamb meat cooked on a shawarma, covered in whatever homemade topping you want. Toasted in its tin foil sarcophagus. Breathe it in. Let the cucumber sauce run it’s path down your chin as the amount of lamb you’re fitting into your mouth is unorthodox to any normal eating standard. The homemade hot sauce continues your intoxicating feeling in a different manner than the drinking. Something so simple, that makes home so good.
Coming down the sidewalk one way are kids in thick-rimmed glasses, form fitting clothes, scarves, and some simple flat-bottomed shoes. The girls wear colorful and elaborate outfits that you’d see in a Forever 21 catalogue. Look the other way and here comes a group of gentlemen in polo shirts and pea coats, accompanied with stain washed, handmade holes in their jeans and some loosely tied high top Nikes. Behind them girls are walking at a steady pace trying to cover their legs that are peaking out from their short, sequined, shimmering dresses. Their faces coated with makeup and their shoes adding at least three inches to their height. Around the corner comes a group of kids that are underage and most likely pounding shots of 151 and having some light beers. YSU hoodies with the hoods up, yelling and stumbling down the brick sidewalks. West Federal Street -- A stereotype melting pot.
People with wristbands, people with X’d hands. People hammered doing more shots of whiskey, people enjoying coffee or tea. Chill and have a martini. Let loose and hear a band, hear a DJ, do something. Neighboring bars cover the whole spectrum when you’re down on West Federal Street.
Want to feel like the spotlights on you for a moment? Venture Downtown on a Wednesday and Karaoke. Make a fool of yourself and simply say, “Fuck it.”
Drink one too many and dance like you’ve never danced before. Get dressed up and go eat. Dress down, watch a sporting event, and eat. Go eat locally produced food. Or you can continue to sit in your house forever playing video games and doing the same thing every night. Stay at home and catch the premiere of some television show (or get DVR.) Or Go meet all the people that I have met. Join us in drum circles. Discussions about movies. Arguments about politics. Talk about inappropriate subject matter over eight pitchers of beer. Continue drinking at three in the morning while people are playing instruments and yelling out lyrics to songs. Feel whatever it is floating through the atmosphere and join in. This past year has been the most unlikely year ever, in the best possible way. The experiences and people I’ve met in this area are enough for me to say, I love this place. No matter where I go, Youngstown is my home. My stomping grounds. The people I know and love, we can look at other people and say, “You ain’t got friends like I got friends.”
“Youngstown sucks.”
I still don’t know how I’d respond to that statement in a short conversation. Maybe, “A lot of places suck.”
or, “You boring, fun sucking fuck you just need to let go a little and see everything you’re not taking time to enjoy.”
or something inappropriate, “If you mean Youngstown sucks the dick of it’s citizens to keep them happy, then yes, you’re right.”
or simply, “No, you suck.”
