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If one were to heed the counsel of experts, the locale I call home would hardly be classified as a true place. Suburban Michigan is characterized by its meandering roads lined with uniform houses, shopping centers filled with chain eateries and large retail stores, and roads primarily designed for cars, with pedestrian paths as an afterthought.
Anthropologist Marc Augé introduced the concept of "non-places" to describe these interchangeable, impersonal areas devoid of history and culture, where people move through quickly and anonymously.
These non-places, which include shopping centers, gas stations, and highways, are prevalent everywhere but seem to be particularly abundant in suburban areas like the one where I grew up.
Author James Howard Kunstler famously labeled this type of landscape as "the geography of nowhere." In his book of the same name, Kunstler traces the history of suburbs from the Puritans' 17th-century concept of private property to the early 1990s when "The Geography of Nowhere" was published.
He argues that, enamored with both automobiles and the vast expanse of space in the country, the U.S. constructed sprawling suburbs because, as he phrases it, "it seemed like a good idea at the time."
However, this arrangement has proven to be "deeply demoralizing and psychologically punishing," Kunstler stated in an email to me—not only due to the unsightliness of suburban design but also because it conflicts with human connection and flourishing.
Kunstler bluntly describes the consequences of this lifestyle in his book as "the immersive ugliness of the built environment in the USA is entropy made visible," suggesting that America has transformed into "a nation of people conditioned to spend their lives in places not worth caring about."
This sort of dismissal is common, although few articulate it as colorfully as Kunstler. Perhaps due to the sometimes monotonous and homogeneous built environment, many assume that suburbs possess a conformist culture.
These areas have long been linked with boredom, with a vague sense of malaise. (Or, as one writer candidly put it, "You know it sucks, but it’s hard to say exactly why.") A Subreddit with 60,000 members called “Suburban Hell” encapsulates this sentiment.
All these perceptions contribute to the prevalent view of suburbs as indistinct and interchangeable—“no-man’s-land,” the “middle of nowhere.”
And this perception doesn't solely come from urban dwellers sneering at "flyover country." Jason Diamond, author of the book "The Sprawl," noted in an interview with Bloomberg that he’s observed a “self-hatred” among people originating from suburbia.
Nevertheless, the majority of Americans reside in this “nowhere.” Providing an exact figure for the proportion of the U.S. that is suburbia is challenging—federal government data often doesn’t differentiate "suburban" as a category distinct from "rural" and "urban" (perhaps implying that it, too, considers these places not worth caring about).
However, in the 2017 American Housing Survey, the government asked people to describe their own neighborhoods, and 52 percent classified them as suburban.
These neighborhoods are not frozen 1950s stereotypes; they are evolving places. For instance, once synonymous with segregation, suburbs are now more diverse than ever.
The crux is: Much of life unfolds in these places. Where there is life, there is connection and emotion. Where there is connection and emotion, nostalgia ensues.
Thus, yes, decades of policy decisions and corporate development have led to what Kunstler describes as the “depressing, brutal, ugly, unhealthy, and spiritually degrading” landscapes of the suburbs.
Yet, many who have called these places home still harbor a sentimental connection to them, spiritual degradation notwithstanding. And an intriguing side effect of the ubiquity of suburban institutions is that I can sense that small spark of recognition—of, dare I say it, “home”—anywhere I encounter it.
To partially defend my hometown against accusations of cultural blandness and lack of history: Ypsilanti, Michigan, is the home of Domino’s Pizza! Of the world’s most phallic building! We were once captivated for several months by a turkey that took up residence in an intersection! Most suburban places, I imagine, have their own quirks and unique histories if one cares to look.
However, it is also true that for my hometown and many others, these charms are mixed in with, or even obscured by, a whole lot of nowhere.
Much of my youth was spent in these non-places: celebrating birthdays at a strip-mall Red Lobster, my sisters and I discreetly stashing Cheddar Bay biscuits in our purses for later; gazing out of car windows at beige subdivisions on one side, cornfields on the other; goofing around in Target with my friends just to pass the time; relying on automobiles to go anywhere or do anything.
Would I have been happier, healthier, more independent in a more walkable city? Would my relationships have been richer if we had more intentionally designed public spaces? Macro-level arguments about urban design might suggest so, but on an individual level, these questions are unanswerable.
It was what it was. Sure, I once got lost trying to go for a walk in our subdivision, disoriented by the endlessly looping streets. But we did have a lot of fun at Target.
I haven’t lived in Ypsilanti since I was 17, first relocating to a college campus north of Chicago, then to Chicago proper, and eventually to Washington, D.C., where I’ve resided for more than a decade.
Yet, at the risk of being one of the “apologists for the ubiquitous highway crud” whom Kunstler disparages in his book, I must confess that even after all this time, I feel at home in a strip mall.
It is familiar; it is my heritage. At least once a year, when the winds carry the scent of the Midwest, I feel compelled to make a pilgrimage to an Olive Garden. If home is “nowhere,” and nowhere has spread almost everywhere, then many places can evoke a sense of home for you.
I know that I’m not the only one who feels a genuine emotional connection to the corporate trappings of suburbia.
The food website Eater once ran a long-standing series of essays called “Life in Chains,” in which writers reflected on how chain restaurants had shaped them.
One of my favorite icebreakers is to ask people to construct the strip mall of their dreams using five chain establishments—and people get remarkably passionate in their responses.
(If you’re curious, mine are: Target, Barnes and Noble, Panera Bread, Ulta, and an AMC movie theater.) During the early stages of the pandemic, a writer for Vice found herself yearning for the experience of wandering the aisles of a TJ Maxx—and the regular Sundays she spent there with her mother.
Of course, people desire specificity in the places they come from, even in suburbia. I believe the particular fervor people have for those slightly more regional chains—Californians and In-N-Out Burger, Southerners and Waffle House—is evidence of that.
No one wants to feel like they’re from nowhere. But life unfolds where you are, and if you find yourself in a strip mall by a highway on-ramp, well, you make the most of it.