Mx. Baltimore Crabs

An ex-Marylander returns to Old Bay country.

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Dear Anthony,

There was a time when I really believed I would hate Maryland forever.

I was raised in Silver Spring, a bustling and diverse suburb where immigrants and diplomats alike would set their roots and raise some kids near the Nation’s Capital. The place has such an idyllic quality to it that even the great Stevie Nicks couldn’t resist naming a song after it.

My parents bought our family home in 1993, a quaint three bedroom within walking distance from an elementary school, a recreation center, and hiking trails that traced the banks of the nearby creek. The neighborhood itself was quiet and the neighbors respectful, many of them Hasidic Jewish families who mostly kept to themselves. For my parents—a Congolese national who witnessed its unraveling and a former debutante raised in Detroit as it resisted desegregation—Silver Spring was paradise.

Maryland represented my parent’s American Dream, but I spent much of my childhood having nightmares. Despite being raised with all the trappings of a privileged upbringing–happily married parents, a house in the ‘burbs, a bilingual education, and three squares a day—I couldn’t help but feel, well, trapped. I was a child of the 90s, after all, being raised on Biblical principles and African values in the era of MTV. Like most suburban kids, I stared living a double life. But that’s another story for another letter.

When my dad died in ‘09, my mother lost her grip on reality. The illusion of our Perfect Suburban Life had shattered, spectacularly. My older siblings all moved out and I spent high school ignoring the fact that our quaint house was falling into disrepair. Our life had blown up, and I felt like the last man left behind. I was more trapped than ever: in a body that made me feel like an alien to myself; under the weight of familial expectations that fit me like a lead jacket; and in a doomsday religion that made me believe my desires were evil. When my number had finally been called and it was my turn to move out, I made a vow: Maryland was dead to me.

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Last week I realized that I will love Maryland forever.

I was in Baltimore, cat-sitting for my friends Grace & Ali, when I realized my that long-harbored grudge was beginning to slip away. While I spent most of my time caring for their sweet sons Clover & Harlow, each venture out into the city would break off another piece of the fossilized chip on my shoulder.

I spent one afternoon reliving my glory days as creek kid while I hiked alongside Herring Run*, a tributary of Baltimore’s Back River. On Labor Day, I started the day with an innocent walk around the harbor and ended up I tucked away two beers and a twelve Old Bay-encrusted crabs in front of a bar* as “Poison” by Bel Biv Devore blared into the streets. There was the spectacular sunset that I got to share with my friend Maya at the Cylburn Arboretum* as we snuck a joint under the canopy of an enormous tree. Each moment filled me with strange feelings of Maryland Pride, and I was completely caught off guard.

The most beautiful sight a Marylander can see: 12 freshly steamed crabs.

Even though it’s only about 30 miles away from Silver Spring, Baltimore always felt like a different world when I was growing up. Trips to the Charm City were rare for my family, as our proximity to DC gave us all of the cultural enrichment we could hope for—we reserved the traffic-ridden drive up I-95 for airport pick ups, school trips, and the occasional visit to the National Aquarium.

It wasn’t until 2022, when a work trip in afforded me the opportunity to stay at the luxurious Ivy Hotel* that I even thought to come to Baltimore on my own. As I spent that weekend walking the labyrinthine halls of the renovated 19th century mansion and sipping champagne at afternoon tea, I felt as if the city had let me in on a secret that I was finally prepared to accept: there’s more to Baltimore than meets the eye.

Afternoon tea at The Ivy Hotel (2022)

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Established in 1792, Baltimore is one of those old port towns whose streets are lined with reminders of its once illustrious past as a hub of industry—I believe you called it a “rust belt city” when you visited in back in 2009, much to the disdain of the locals. Most of Baltimore’s tourism is centered around the harbor, where visitors flock to visit the aquarium or get overcharged for Maryland blue crab at whatever kitschy nautical restaurant they stumble into.

Just a few steps from the Inner Harbor’s commercial zone, and you’ll find the rough edges of Baltimore’s ongoing gentrification: whole blocks of abandoned warehouses and factories draped in scaffolding and “FOR LEASE” signs, awaiting their transformation into luxury waterfront condos or a CrossFit gym. The side streets are marked by big chunks of stone peering out from gaping holes in the asphalt, glimpses of the once prosperous city that has been paved over.

In Baltimore, the old and the new are mosaicked together in a way that’s both alluring and a tad unsettling. Each neighborhood has its own character, and most are separated by long sloping streets that afford you a peek into—or seclusion from—the view of the rest of the city. The older neighborhoods boast some of the most beautiful brick-faced row homes I’ve ever seen, both the ones that emitted warm light and those around the corner whose windows and doors were boarded shut. As I took the city bus around town (I famously can’t drive), I started to notice that no two intersections felt exactly the same, for better or worse.

Killing time at a local haunt frequented by Baltimore icon and filmmaker John Waters.

However, what makes the city shine as Maryland’s glimmering metropolis isn’t necessarily its architecture, but the warmth of its people—catching a bad vibe in Baltimore is simply not allowed. Tenacity and grit are the lifeblood of Baltimoreans, and after a long week of hard work the city loves to let loose. Walking around on a Friday night, you’ll see most bars packed to the brim and long lines snaking around the popular clubs. As I pulled up to a party one weekend with my dear friend Kellie, I noticed three other house parties in full swing just as she looked for parking. Even with no shortage of nightlife in the city, the Baltimore house party will always reign supreme.

What endeared me to Baltimore’s beauty the most, though, wasn’t crushing Natty Boh on someone’s back patio (“You have to love the can,” you said on your visit. “You know a beer is good when the cartoon on the can is winking at you.”), or even getting cocktails with Kellie the following weekend at John Waters’ favorite bar on Charles Street*; it was waking up at 9am on Saturday for the 32nd Street Farmer’s Market*, Grace & Ali’s immediate first stop after two weeks away from home. As we joined the queue of cars waiting to pull into the parking lot, it became unmistakably clear that this farmer’s market wasn’t just some weekly occurrence—it was a true community affair.

We started with breakfast burritos from the popular taco stand, best enjoyed while sitting on bench that’s housing someone’s abandoned belongings underneath. Then we snaked our way through the stalls, each one bursting with boxes of peak-season tomatoes, fragrant herbs, late-summer flowers, and so much more. One woman sold vintage clothing from a decked-out school bus parked across the street from Red Emma’s* the sprawling worker-owned bookstore that lent its bathrooms to the market’s shoppers. Another stall served piping hot masala chai topped with bright red strands of saffron. An elderly lady handed Ali a pamphlet for an herb exchange and invited them to some sort of pagan circle happening later that week.

Flowers from a vendor at the 32nd Street Farmer’s Market.

As we walked back to the car, a quartet of middle-aged men set up in the middle of the square to serenade passersby with uptempo jazz. Bemused by the sight of a clarinet in the wild, I couldn’t help but notice that the sandal-clad musician was sporting cobalt nail polish on only his big toes. I let my imagination fill in the blanks of what I assumed was his life the other six days of the week. I pictured a dedicated Girl Dad, whose home was filled with toys, laughter, and memories as soft as the music he played. Even if this was far from the truth, I couldn’t help but get carried away by the image that the blue-toed busker evoked—an emblem of Baltimore’s enduring eccentricity.

I wish you could’ve spent more time really getting to know this place and the quirks that make it so charming. There really is more to Baltimore than meets the eye.

Forever your student, Chala June

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