I moved to New York City when I was in my early twenties and swore I would never return to the suburbs. It wasn’t my childhood that ruined the suburbs for me, however; it was depictions of it. Specifically, novels that portray the suburbs as a culturally bereft wasteland where dreams go to die.
The culprits included Rabbit, Run; The Ice Storm, and (the worst offender) Revolutionary Road, in which a couple leave behind their bohemian lives in Manhattan and move to Connecticut, where they implode in the most horrifically awful way you’ve ever seen. No way, I said. Not me. Not ever.
SPOILER ALERT: I moved to the suburbs.
Read more of this essay on Goodhousekeeping.com