I used to think my hometown of Beaumont, Texas, was the kind of place you leave and never look back at. The kind of town where the Dairy Queen doubles as the community’s social hub and when people say “Tex-Mex,” they mean chain-restaurant queso. Let’s just say it didn’t scream “romantic backdrop” or “place where dreams come true.” Growing up, I had stars in my eyes and two things on my mind: escaping the suffocating small-town fishbowl and finding where I could be free—free to love, free to thrive, free to exist fully. Spoiler alert: It didn’t exactly happen overnight.
Turns out, the place that made me wasn’t a single zip code but a journey through moments, people, and lessons, all of which began in that unassuming little town known for oil refineries and BBQ plates the size of toddlers. This piece is part ode, part roast, and fully an exploration of how the places we inhabit shape us—romantically, emotionally, personally—whether we realize it in the moment or not.
Chapter One: Love in the Time of Rodeos
If you’ve never tried to discover your romantic identity in a small Texas town, let me set the scene: It’s Friday night, and the high school football field smells like wet grass and concession stand nachos. For a closeted Black teen like me, the idea of “dating” felt more theoretical than practical. Everyone seemed to have paired off by junior year, and straight relationships were basically a school sport. As for me? I was still betting my odds on the slim chance that my crush knew why I blushed every time he asked me to borrow a pen in class. (Spoiler: He didn’t.)
Beaumont was all about practicality, which extended even to relationships. The couples I knew were mostly high school sweetheart stories: people pairing up with whoever sat close to them in homeroom and letting habit do the rest. Sure, some found real love, but most just went through the motions. Even at home, love looked like survival. My parents didn’t have the fairy-tale romance; they had a partnership built on building something with very little. They didn’t hold hands or cuddle on the couch during “Jeopardy!,” but they were a team, and that taught me something about what love could look like: real, raw, and functional.
Chapter Two: Escape to the City—And All Its Lessons
Fast-forward to my college years at a historically Black university deep in Louisiana’s heat, where I foolishly believed urban life would contain all the answers to my teenage yearning. It didn’t. But it did have fried catfish at 2 a.m., so, you know, points were scored.
Living in a larger city with a vibrant social scene threw me headfirst into a world of possibility—and awkward first dates. There’s nothing quite like misunderstanding the concept of “casual hangout” only to find yourself overdressed at a backyard crawfish boil while everyone else looks like they just rolled out of bed. (Note to past self: The tuxedo blazer was overkill, sweetie.)
But the city also taught me something Beaumont never did: My queerness wasn’t just a secret to keep—it was a compass, guiding me toward spaces and people that felt like home away from home. Through Friday night karaoke and impromptu queer art exhibits, I started to understand that love thrived in authenticity, not in trying to fit the mold. The best love stories—romantic, platonic, or self—aren’t written in perfect cursive but scribbled across life’s margins.
Chapter Three: Home Is a Feeling (And Sometimes a Place)
After stints in Houston and Chicago, where I dabbled in everything from nonprofit work to writing workshops that turned into impromptu therapy sessions, I found myself back in Beaumont. It was like stepping into a time capsule, with minor upgrades: The Dairy Queen got a drive-thru. Target had replaced the local mall. But what I noticed most wasn’t external. It was me.
Beaumont didn’t change, but I had. Maybe it was years of chasing fleeting connections in loud bars, or maybe it was realizing that the fast-paced cityscape can be just as lonely as a two-stoplight town. Either way, I returned with a newfound appreciation for the family dinners I once rolled my eyes at and the porch talks where love wasn’t discussed but demonstrated.
Being back reminded me of something simple but profound: Love—the real, lasting kind—isn’t always fireworks and Hollywood montages. Sometimes, it’s in the unspoken care between my mom and dad as they refill each other’s coffee cups or in the way my community would rally together during hard times without hesitation. It wasn’t flashy or Instagrammable, but it taught me this: Home is a feeling.
Chapter Four: Lessons From the Place That Made Me
As much as I’ve craved external places to give me meaning, Beaumont showed me that who we are and who we love is shaped by the foundation laid in the places that raise us. Here’s what I’ve learned about roots, romance, and everything in between:
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You Can’t Find What You’re Not Ready For
Every time I ran toward a new city or scene, chasing my idea of love, I found myself unprepared for the real work of connection. It wasn’t the landscape—it was me. Unpacking my insecurities and growing into self-love was the first step toward building relationships that actually worked. -
Love Grows in Unexpected Places
Sometimes, love looks like a sprawling metropolis with candlelit dinners and streetlights that flicker just-so. Other times, it looks like Beaumont: small, sturdy, kind. Learning to embrace that duality has been life-changing. -
The People Shape the Place
What made Beaumont matter (and what makes any place stick with us) isn’t the landmarks but the relationships tied to them. My best memories aren’t about the town itself but the people who shaped my understanding of it—and of myself.
Conclusion: Carry Home With You
The place that made me isn’t just a dot on the map. It’s the contradiction of wide-open Lone Star skies and the suffocating feeling of staying put. It’s the comfort of family and the urgency to carve out something bigger than myself. It’s every awkward date, every karaoke night, and every hug shared on front porch steps.
Wherever you are, whatever town you’re running from (or toward), just remember: the place that made you doesn’t define you. It prepares you. Carry its lessons with you—not its limits.
And don’t forget: If the Dairy Queen has a drive-thru, you’re already winning.
