I grew up in northern Minnesota, in a suburb of Duluth called Esko. It sits just outside of Duluth, the largest city in that part of the state, but Esko itself feels worlds away. I graduated in a class of only 81 students—people I had gone to school with since pre-kindergarten.
In Esko, everyone knows everyone. That also means everyone knows your business—every detail of your life, whether you want them to or not. It could be overwhelming. I didn’t think it was possible for middle-aged moms to gossip more than their high school daughters, but somehow, they did.
When I say Esko is a small town, I truly mean small. It’s basically a four-corner intersection with a small bank, a post office, a dentist, a candle shop, and a little restaurant that seems to get a new owner every year.
Despite its size, Esko is known for its strong sports programs. With property taxes as high as they are, much of the town’s energy and funding goes toward athletics. Families would even transfer into the district just so their kids could play on the basketball or football teams. Because of that culture, I was immersed in sports from the moment I could walk. I played basketball and soccer with the same group of 10–15 girls from preschool all the way through high school, until I finally convinced my parents to let me quit after my sophomore year.
Esko can be a good town in many ways, but for me, it wasn’t. I often felt trapped by how small it was and by the constant feeling of being watched, even though I mostly kept to myself. The size of the community meant there was no real escape from people who bullied me growing up. So much happened to me in that town that I could probably write an entire book about it.
This essay is one in a series of Columbia College students’ reflections on how class and race put a mark on where they grew up. They answered these questions: What should people know about the place where I grew up in? What are the stories I tell about my life there?
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