Growing Up in Richfield.

Before cell phones, the internet, and rainbow flags.

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By Karen Lundquist

Sometimes the places we grow up shape us as much through what we couldn't say as through what we experienced. Karen Lundquist looks back on her childhood in Richfield, Minnesota, and wonders how life might have unfolded differently if she'd understood one important thing about herself a little sooner.

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Richfield.

For me, it brings to mind a small city tucked next to a large city. (Back when I thought 30,000 people was small.) A smaller sibling to Bloomington, where we called Edina residents “cake eaters” and weren't exactly sure where Wayzata and Eden Prairie fell into the hierarchy.

I grew up as part of the feral Gen X world, even though I had a mom who didn't work outside the house. (Literally. That was Dad's job. Both a formal 40-hour-per-week job and anything that needed doing outside the front or back door.)

My parents bought a yellow ranch in West Richfield in 1961 and finished adopting three kids in 1971. There was a landline with a long cord that we tried to pull as far into the stairwell as possible. And we could easily walk to multiple playgrounds, the Woodlake Nature Center, and the elementary, junior high, and high school.

There was a group of kids to play with, and at least four of them were named some variation of “Chris.” I had the same experience with my name, Karen. Karen L. was the preferred designation at school, as compared to my friend Karin E.

I remember finding a lot of tucked-away places where I could keep to myself. The maple tree in the front yard had some very comfortable branches. The little space between the bed and the wall. The spot behind the recliner (yes, it was harvest gold) in the living room. Anywhere I could dive into a book and not be there.

Being a kid was often tough. I wasn't sure of myself. I was the oldest daughter, so pleasing was my middle name, and it often meant changing how I acted to fit what someone else wanted (or what I thought they wanted).

Reading became a way to block out all that pressure and uncertainty. I didn't know if there were other kids like me, but it didn't feel like it. It didn't help that I didn't know what “me” was.

I also loved music, from walking three blocks to Hildegard Hedberg for piano lessons to singing in the church and school choirs and eventually picking up the French horn. With music, I felt more like I belonged. I knew clearly what I was supposed to do and be.

I remember discovering KQ92, WLOL, and other stations, using my clock radio to tune in and my dad's big tape player to press “play” and “record” and capture my latest favorite song.

Like Pee-wee Herman, there was a big but.

My mom's expectations.

She was very literal in training me to be a housewife. My Saturday tasks involved a sudsy bucket, the kitchen and bathroom floors, baking chocolate chip cookies for lunches, and helping with the ironing. She had a bad back from her early nursing work, and being on her hands and knees couldn't have been fun.

She talked about me getting married and clearly assumed my path would mimic hers.

We went to church, often twice a week, and frequently had daily family devotions that Dad read out of a tiny book called Christ in Our Home (I think!). There was a Bible verse, a reflection, and a prayer. Dad read it to us, of course.

I'm dancing around the core of my story a bit.

I wasn't a terribly social kid, and what I did was often with just one or two friends. The highlight of my week was the Saturday morning trip to the library, followed by me waiting in the car and reading while my mom took my siblings grocery shopping.

I was much more comfortable in small groups, and ultimately more comfortable with boys than girls.

It was a clear transaction. I'm nice, you like me, we hang out, maybe we become boyfriend and girlfriend.

Then I sabotage it.

I ghost (wish I'd had that word then), don't commit, or date more than one person at a time. It was a way to protect myself while still doing what I thought my mom wanted. It kept me distant but socially acceptable.

I assumed you were supposed to be with guys.

And those other feelings? Well, they stayed hidden.

I did have close girlfriends, but none of them fell into the “crush” category. They were usually in band, and we had things in common. We had fun and hung out. Sometimes the connection was a hobby; sometimes it was having parents who weren't really present.

Looking back with what I know today, I wonder how different I might have been if I had realized and acknowledged something about myself much earlier.

I am gay.

Acknowledging that would have created an insurmountable issue with my parents and confused the world at large. But it also might have given me an internal alignment, an understanding of myself that I wouldn't find until much later.

In many ways, my life was easy. No food insecurity, a safe environment, good schools, lots of opportunities for activities and connections. Unmarried aunts who spoiled us a little.

I don't underestimate how difficult it would have been without that stability.

But I wonder.

What if I had been out to myself, at least?

How would Richfield have been different?

How would this story read?