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When I think about people banning books, I often picture Marcia Langman from *Parks and Recreation*, in her pink cardigan and pearl necklace, standing up in a crowded room, shouting about unwholesomeness, reducing great works of literature to shameful smut.


I am lucky enough to never have experienced a pro-censorship PTA meeting. Most of the books that I read in middle school and high school were on the commonly banned list, and I applaud my teachers from not shying away from them. And yes, those books showed instances of sex, racism, and/or violence, among other distasteful or unsavory themes, but what a lot of censorship promoters don’t understand is those taboo subjects are merely the means to discussing a more meaningful end.

*The Great Gatsby*, for example, at its surface, is simply a book about rich people partying hard and sleeping with each other. When people take the time to dig deeper, though, it becomes evident that the story isn’t celebrating a lavish lifestyle; in fact, it’s cautioning against one. Those in the story are perpetually unhappy, constantly looking for a life and love they don’t have, and suffering extreme loneliness. Not only does it question whether the American Dream actually leads to fulfillment, but it also examines class and gender issues as well as educates us about the attitude of Americans in the Jazz Age. It’s a lot to learn from a bunch of rich people partying hard and sleeping with each other, if readers are open to the lessons it has to teach.

For many years of my youth, I claimed *The Catcher in the Rye* as my favorite book. I related to Holden Caulfield and his teen angst, his constant uncomfortableness, his inability to fit in. The book is constantly being challenged for vulgar language, sexual references, blasphemy, undermining of family values, encouragement of rebellion, and promotion of drinking, smoking, lying, and promiscuity. But what teenager doesn’t use vulgar language, tell sexual jokes or lie about his/her sexual experience, and want to rebel against parents? In order to discuss a teen’s life honestly, the author has to have a character display those undesirable traits. And when I read it as a teenager, I often thought that Holden was kind of a pervert, but that didn’t make me want to be a pervert. In fact, it helped me question my own sexuality and my own experiences with the opposite sex. I was grappling with the same issues Holden was, and though I may have handled my issues differently, it was comforting to know that I was not the only one dealing with those issues; my teenage angst and urges were normal. I was not alone.


The themes that get books banned are those same reasons that *Catcher in the Rye* has been banned. And I can’t help but assume that the people who challenge these books are the people who believe that vulgarity and sex and vices and rebellion and blasphemy shouldn’t exist. And maybe those trait shouldn’t exist, but it’s a useless belief. They DO exist, they’ll always exist, and there’s really nothing anyone can do about it.

The people who plug their ears and hum so they don’t have to hear about the harsh realities of the world are doing themselves a great disservice. Education is the most important thing a person can do with their life. By learning about the world and its people, even the less favorable characteristics, a person becomes more empathetic, more patient, more understanding with their fellow humans. People will judge each other less and help each other more. Humans are not perfect, nor were we meant to be (if we were, why would we make so many mistakes?). If I could ban something, it would be people’s too-high expectations to be wholesome.

So I encourage you, reader, to pick up a banned book today and learn something that someone else might not want you to learn. You’ll be better off for it.

*Happy Banned Books Week. For a list of commonly banned books, visit the [American Library Association’s](http://www.ala.org/bbooks/bannedbooksweek) webpage.*

I stand in front of the class. There are still a few minutes before it’s time to start. Some of the students play on their phones. Others stare straight ahead. Some stare at me.

I stare at the paper in front of me, a diligent outline of my plans for this meeting. I try to memorize it while taking deep breaths. It’s nearly show time.

I am a performer. It’s not enough to just talk, to tell them the dos and don’ts of writing. I can’t be monotonous. I can’t stand still. I have to gesture. I have to move. My voice has to have inflection. I have to capture their attention. I have to persuade them to trust me. I have to convince them to listen to me.

I am a court jester. I not only perform, but I entertain. If their eyes start to close or their gaze starts to wander, I sing a song or dance awkwardly, maybe say a word like “poop” or “boob” that catches them off-guard. If I keep them laughing, I keep their attention, and maybe they’ll learn something in between my stunts.

I am a friend. I have to emphasize with them. “Verbs suck, I know. I hate them, too,” I say. I have to be approachable. They have to feel I can understand what they’re going through. They want to know me, connect with me. They’re amazed I know the words to their favorite songs and shocked when I mention Marvel movies in class.

I am a mother. I have to find a balance between comforting my students when they fail and inflicting tough love to get them to try harder. I want to protect them, but I don’t want to coddle them. The real world is cruel, and I have to prepare them.

It’s not enough to teach them words. I have to teach them concepts. I have to teach them how to think critically. I have to teach them truth. I have to teach them how to find truth in themselves.

I spend my days and my nights dreaming up new ways to approach topics, new perspectives to offer, new methods to explain so their writing can improve. I can’t or don’t stop thinking about teaching. I am responsible for these kids. They’re depending on me to provide them the education they need.

So I take that last minute to breathe, to plan. And then class begins. I begin.


It was getting late. The sun had gone down and we had a two and a half hour drive home. My husband and I grabbed our stuff and we were ready to leave. My brother, the birthday boy, threw a lovely party packed full of food, activity, and conversation, but he and I didn’t really get a chance to talk. Now, with coolers in hand, we stood in the driveway ready to say good-bye, when my brother asked, “What’s next up for the blog, now that your 30-day project is over?”

“I don’t know yet,” I answered. “I’m open to suggestions.”

He looked up to the sky for a second, a mischievous smirk on his face, as if he had a brilliant idea he’d been saving and was just trying to figure out how to word it.

“I want you to write 2,000 words on your dream job.”

It sounded like an assignment I might toss at my college composition kids. I scoffed at first. No one would read a blog that was 2,000 words long, I assured him. But in the end, I said, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

My brother, like me, has always been a believer of dreams coming true. When we were kids and someone asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up, my answer was a writer (or a rock star) and his answer was an actor (or a rock star).


My brother and I waiting for the bus when we were kids.

That question: “what do you want to be when you grow up”…it doesn’t ask for a rational answer. It doesn’t ask what you will be most suited to be when you grow up. It doesn’t ask what career path you will be interested in following. It asks what you WANT to be. What are your desires? Where do your passions lie? What would make you most happy? The question asks us to dream about the future. So we ask ourselves over and over again, well into our adult life: what is my dream job?

In my brother’s eyes, I was born a writer. I used to write stories in elementary school, win Young Author awards in middle school. I filled journals upon journals in my youth. I went to college to study words. The fact that I’m not a published author by now must boggle his mind.

My brother has long been an instigator of action. He’s a big believer in reaching for your dreams. He’s always trying to inspire me, my mother, his wife, and I’m assuming all of his friends to take risks, follow their hearts, start businesses, put their lives on the line for love.

Over the last decade, he’s encouraged me to make writing my career. He introduced me to NaNoWriMo. He instructed me to write for an hour a day so that I might produce a novel. He suggests places for me to publish my writing to get more exposure.

I love him for that. I love that he cares. I love that he wants me to accomplish my dreams.

Desires, passions, and happiness aren’t always at the forefront of our adult careers, though. At some point, we stop dreaming and start settling. We can’t all be famous authors, celebrity actors, sports stars, and the like. The majority of the population has to find something a little less glamourous to fit into. Some are lucky and find a job that incorporates what they’re passionate about. Some aren’t so lucky.

Up until now, I led a rather passive life. I did what is necessary of me to do. I knew I needed a job and I needed to make money, so I settled for jobs that I didn’t care for because it was a steady paycheck and offered me some security. And I’m pretty sure that has always pissed off my brother.

If someone were to ask me what my dream job would be now (as my brother just did), I couldn’t answer as easily as I did in my youth. Yes, I am still passionate about writing. I would love to do it and get paid for it. But my experience in the working world gives me pause when it comes to answering the question of what my dream job is.

Before, when I was young, and I said I wanted to be a writer, I meant that I wanted to get paid to write whatever I wanted. That’s not what writing for a living is like, though. Writing for a living involves writing about things I’m not the least bit interested in. It sometimes involves compromising my integrity so that whoever is paying me to write gets what THEY want, not what I want. It sometimes involves not being completely honest so others will promote me (my 30 days of GR project was nearly 100% positive material, but there are things I dislike about my city and things I dislike about a lot of the establishments I wrote about. If I was honest, I wouldn’t get the promotion I was hoping for).

Writing is political. Writing is subjective. Writing is controversial. There’s always going to be someone who doesn’t agree, who doesn’t care, who looks at my article and then clicks the “x” in the top right corner because they’re already bored by the time they finish the first sentence. I’m willing to bet someone just clicked the “x” on my page after reading that last sentence.

The people who think writing for a living is a dream job are people who don’t write for a living.

So if not writing, what is my dream job?

By middle school, my brother and I realized we weren’t going to be rock stars. I still wanted to be a writer and he still wanted to be an actor. But we both started to recognize that it might be a good idea to have a backup plan. In eighth grade, I met Mrs. Bower, who inspired me to teach English. She once came to class dressed in a green unitard. On the board, she wrote “green being” as a play on “green bean,” and her outfit was the manifestation of her joke. In all her eccentricity, it was clear that she was passionate about words, and her excitement latched onto me. I wanted to be just like her, absurdity and all.

When I got to college, I didn’t think twice about declaring my major: Secondary Education. As I completed my education classes, however, I started to learn what being a teacher really meant. It meant being a mentor, a nurse, a counselor, a politician, an activist…so many more hats than what I wanted to wear. I wanted to read books and talk about them with my students, in the same simple way I wanted to write about my interests and get paid for it. What I wanted from a career was so straightforward. In reality, these jobs were complicated and complex. They weren’t the dreams I imagined.

I ended up dropping the major and focusing only on English. Since there aren’t a lot of jobs out there for English degrees, I settled into a job that paid the bills after graduation.

I went back for my Master’s because I wanted something more. I wanted a more meaningful job. I was still thinking about writing. I was still thinking about teaching. I knew I didn’t want to teach high school, but maybe teaching college would be less political. I thought a Master’s program might steer me in the right direction.

During that program, I got the opportunity to work with undergrad students. I helped guide them as they wrote their papers. I even got to stand up in front of them and teach them a few times. The program allowed me to test the waters. I learned that I could teach college, that I might even enjoy it.

I considered going on for a PhD. There would be more teaching opportunities while in the program, and when I graduated from that, I could get a decent-paying full-time job teaching at a university. But many of my professors steered me away from that idea, scaring me with claims that the field was competitive, that I might spend all that time and money for nothing in the end. I also knew that if I did get a PhD and was lucky enough to get a job offer, I would likely have to move to a new city, probably to a new state. And I couldn’t see myself living anywhere but here.

I passed on the PhD and instead tried my luck at the local community college where I did get hired as an adjunct professor teaching composition. Truth be told, I love it. It’s not perfect, but I enjoy teaching more than I’ve enjoyed any other job.

If teaching college were my dream job, I’d be living my dream right now, but of course it’s not that simple. Adjuncting doesn’t really provide a living. So I am still looking for full-time work, something that offers stability and a steady generous paycheck. My brain says I need to earn money, save for a family, for a much-needed vacation, for retirement. Freelance writing and adjunct teaching are too unpredictable. Sometimes the work is there, and sometimes it’s not. I want to know every night when I go to bed that I have a job to go to the next day.

So I ask myself yet again, what is my dream job?

Some people believe that if a woman is a feminist (which I am with much enthusiasm), she must be career driven. I’ve never been career driven. And I acknowledge and appreciate the fact that if I wanted to be the CEO of a company, I damn well could do it. But I have never wanted to be the CEO of a company. I have never felt compelled to work 80-hour weeks to accomplish something in the workplace. And when there were times I had to work an 80-hour week, I was miserable throughout.

If I could spend 80 hours a week on my passions, on the other hand, I’d be much happier: writing, dancing, and teaching. If I could spend 80 hours a week with my husband, I’d sign up for that job in a heartbeat. No vacation benefits required.

There’s a large part of me that would like to conform to the adult career, to settle for that job that incorporates my interests but gives me the stability and freedom to have a normal life like everyone else. As I get older and as I continually get let down by the job options out there, I think that’s the kind of job I dream about more than anything: a job that I can enjoy, that challenges me, that leaves me with plenty of time for my hobbies and husband, and that is steady and secure.

I know that’s not a very satisfying answer. Dream jobs are supposed to be monumental. They are supposed to be impressive. And this idea of settling could seem cowardly, average, boring, *passive.*

But I think I would choose a passive work life so I can have an active personal life.

Our jobs are not our whole lives. That’s a misconception we’re fed from the day we start we kindergarten. Maybe we should stop asking kids what they want to be when they grow up. Because living is about so much more than working.

Fear not, my dear brother. My dreams are far from dead. Writing this blog is proof of that. I will keep hoping, keep working towards a life that allows me to write and teach. No matter what my day job is, I will have passion in my life. And that sounds like a dream to me.


My brother and I now.

The buzz of a roller coaster and high-pitched excited voices approach me. In another second, the cars roar on the track above as they whiz by. I see hair flapping and feet kicking. An explosion of gleeful screams from the passengers quickly dies out as the ride continues down the track. I can’t help but laugh out loud, amazed and amused, feeling the fear and fun of the riders though I stand on the ground and they fly through the air.


I hated my first roller coaster ride. My father took me on the [Bluestreak](https://www.cedarpoint.com/rides/Roller-Coasters/Blue-Streak) when I was in elementary school. It was the oldest coaster at the park. And when the car came over the hill and the ride accelerated, I closed my eyes and held my breath and imagined I was somewhere else, anywhere else. And then someone, I don’t know who, maybe my mother (but that wouldn’t make sense because she never stepped foot on a roller coaster all of her life), told me to try opening my eyes and screaming. So the next time I was yanked onto a ride (I wouldn’t have gone willingly), that’s exactly what I did, and I was cured. Cured or cursed? Cursed with desire for speeding down twisted metal.

In the summer, the lines last for hours. Before smartphones, we made up words games to pass the time. When [Top Thrill Dragster](https://www.cedarpoint.com/rides/Roller-Coasters/Top-Thrill-Dragster) arrived, the wait time was three hours for a ride time of seventeen seconds. It was new and didn’t always perform perfectly. The car may make it over the one drastic 420-foot hill, but it may not; if not, the car comes [rolling backwards](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKzl7F1HXYA) to where it started, speeding down the hill it just climbed. We stand in the herd, waiting our turn, watching every car that goes up that steep incline, watch it slow down drastically toward the top, nearly crawling to reach the top. The whole crowd inhales together and holds that breath in their mouth until the car inches far enough for gravity to take it the rest of the way over the hump, plunging down down down, faster than a bullet. And we all cheer triumphantly.


When it is finally my turn, I lower myself into the car. My heart races and my palms sweat. I wipe my hands on my jean shorts and try to ration my breath. Most coasters, you can’t see what’s coming until you’re there. But I’ve had three hours to stare up at this monster and contemplate the speed, the height, the angle. Getting in that car, waiting for the thumbs up from the workers, pulling away from the loading platform never gets easier for me. But it’s too late. I’m in the seat. The car is on the track. The stoplight moves from yellow to green, and in an instant, I am hurled forward and shot into the air, screaming all the way.

Coming to [Cedar Point](https://www.cedarpoint.com/) is like coming home, and yet every time I visit, it feels like the first time. It still awes me with its colors, its sounds, its energy. It dares me to strap in, take a risk, get spun upside down and every other direction. I am a kid again here, a fearless kid who can take on anything. And even though I know I shouldn’t take on everything, especially if I want to keep all my food in my stomach, I feel that power of possibility, that power that says I will conquer.


*What’s your favorite coaster? What’s your favorite amusement park? Set your timer and write about it. Share your story in the comments below.*

So I did it. I posted 30 different things, 30 different adventures, 30 different days about Grand Rapids. It wasn’t easy, I’ll be honest. I had trouble coming up with ideas. I struggled to spit out words every day. I felt guilty spending money and gas on things around town. But I kept pushing through until the last day.

And was it worth my time to do it, in the end?

I suppose it depends. What was my goal, after all? Did I even have one?

I started this project the minute I entered the strange new realm of unemployment. I think I wanted to use this project to keep me occupied and keep my mind off the fact that I no longer had a job. I wanted a daily reminder to be positive and grateful, and focusing on the city I love so much was the perfect way to do it.


It’s really not easy being an American adult without a job. We place so much emphasis on our careers. I was in this situation two years ago when I graduated my Master’s program. And I didn’t handle it well. Without a job, I forget who I am. I feel like I have no purpose, like I am a burden on my hard-working husband and the home we’ve built together.

I wish I could say that this time has been different, but I’ve spent the majority of the last month feeling really anxious and overwhelmed as well as insufficient, undesirable, and unqualified at pretty much everything in my life.

There were many days I didn’t feel like I should be writing. I often talked myself out of it, convinced that it wasn’t worth my time. The only way I could persuade myself to keep at it was the promise I made to my readers. But I wondered, should I really be writing when there are jobs to apply for? Should I really be doing something FOR FUN when I should be doing something more productive? Is this time well spent?


This concept of “time well spent” is something I’ve been struggling with all month. Quitting my job left me with a lot of time on my hands. I made a list of all the things I should accomplish during my “sabbatical.” Of course the first was finding a new job. But there were other things: projects around the house, getting some writing published, finding some freelance opportunities. There was so much work to do. I should use this time wisely.

By focusing only on being productive, I forfeited other things I enjoyed as well, like going for walks or attending yoga classes or laying by the pool. Why should I get to have fun while my husband works his butt off? So I wouldn’t make time for these feel-good activities. The lack of feel-good activities left me feeling not very good indeed.

I finally realized that there had to some kind of balance. Yes, I should make time for looking for a new job and making some money with my writing. But I should also make time for things that make me feel good, that are fun for me, that make me smile. Because it’s true—all work and no play makes Jenny a very sad girl.

So yes, this project was time well spent. I actively and regularly wrote in August, which is more than I can say for July or June or any month before that. I had some good pieces of writing and I have some ideas I can build off of in the future. And it was fun to brag about, openly appreciate, and share my city with all of you.

No matter how long I’m in this limbo of unemployment, I will keep blogging about things that make me happy. I will go for walks and do yoga and lay by the pool as long as summer lets me. By doing that, I can stay positive, and if I can stay positive, I can make it through this transition period and whatever comes after. As long as I keep making time for myself, I can look back on this period of my life and know that this was time well spent.

When it’s summer and you don’t want to cook, or when it’s late and you’ve had a few drinks, or when you just get that craving for a hot dog, Grand Rapids has plenty of options to satisfy your needs.

People almost always first think of Detroit when talking about Coney dogs in Michigan. But Grand Rapids has really thrown their hat into the ring of hot dog restaurants. It’s surprising how many places you can get a hot dog in the city and suburbs. But then again, who doesn’t love a good hot dog?

If you ask someone from Grand Rapids where to get a coney dog, there’s a 95% chance they will point you in the direction of Yesterdog in Eastown.

Yesterdog has been in the community for 40 years now. It is the restaurant they based Dog Years on in *American Pie,* and they shot portions of the film there. Heck, Obama has been Yesterdog. It’s a Grand Rapids institution and it’s known worldwide.

Blah, blah, blah.

I’ve tried really hard to keep this project positive. If I don’t like something, I keep it to myself. I want to promote Grand Rapids, not cut it down.

But I don’t like Yesterdog. There, I said it. As a native Grand Rapidian, I might get death threats for saying that. But I don’t like it.

It’s gross. It hasn’t been touched since it opened in 1976. Its walls are a stomach-acid salmon pink that makes you think about vomit. The wood floors and the booths are all scratched up.


Ordering at Yesterdog is like ordering at the Soup Nazi’s counter. There is a set of [rules](http://yesterdog.com/yester_rules.html) you have to follow. There are no special orders, no customizations allowed. I was so nervous the first time I ate there, I practiced my order over and over in my head while I waited in line so I wouldn’t get yelled at. It’s oppressive.


A lot of people would say that these qualities give it character. And again I say to you: blah, blah, blah.

Lucky for me, that’s not the only joint in town.

A year ago, I would have said Ritz Koney was the best place to get a hot dog. Its perfect location on Ionia Street was tucked along a lot of the city’s most popular bars, making it a convenient stop for a late-night snack. But it also had its own bar, so if you wanted a beer with your dog, all the better.


I’m a little biased toward Ritz Koney because I used to live a couple blocks from it, so it was definitely the hot dog restaurant I frequented most. Unlike Yesterdog, it was clean, comfortable, and had a wide selection of hot dog toppings.

Unfortunately for the Heartside community, Ritz Koney closed its doors this year.

No matter–there are still other options. In which case, I would say the best place to go for a weiner is the [Dog Pit](http://www.thedogpitgr.com/) on Monroe Center. Situated right across from Rosa Parks Circle in the heart of the city, it’s a convenient location for pretty much all events and festivals. It’s cheap. The dogs are 2 bucks and drinks and chips are 1 buck.


It’s small. It just a long counter and then booths and tables against the wall. And while they may take their time with the service, there’s none of the stressful pressure that you get at that other place. The dogs are good, the toppings are plentiful, and the atmosphere is relaxed. Really, what more could you ask for?


There are still plenty of places for me to try, even in the downtown area. One day soon I’ll have to give [Grand Coney](http://www.grandconeygr.com/), [One Stop Coney](http://www.onestopconeyshop.com/), and [Jonny B’z](http://www.jonnybz.com/) a try. But [like I said before](http://jenniferfurner.com/30-days-in-grand-rapids/), I’ve got plenty of time. I’m not going anywhere.

A few years go, my husband and I were invited to my brother’s girlfriend’s mother’s birthday party in Clarkston on the east side of the state. We all affectionately call her Mama (even my own mother calls her this); where my family is concerned, it’s easier to call her Mama than by her actual name, which is Polish and can be tricky for some people to pronouce.

The birthday party was done in extreme Polish fashion, which is something stupid a boring American ethnic-mutt like me would say. To Mama and her group of friends, the way they celebrate is the normal way to celebrate. But to me, a boring American ethnic-mutt, it was quite a culture shock. All of Mama’s guests spoke Polish. Most of them spoke Polish to each other. There was a lot of vodka. There was a lot of food. And there was a guitarist and dancing, and everyone sang songs in Polish. It was a great party, but I was definitely on the outside, watching more than participating.

As the years went on, I grew much more familiar with Polish culture. By the time my brother and his girlfriend got married, I could sing a majority of the words to “Sto Lat,” I knew what was in the Polish food I ate (spoiler alert: it’s all delicious), and I wasn’t the least bit surprised when someone grabbed my hand and brought me into a dancing circle.

I am so lucky that I get to experience the Polish culture on a regular basis. It’s nice to now be on the inside of this warm, fun, and friendly group of people.

So when it was time for the annual Polish Festival downtown, how could we miss it?

The weather this weekend was pretty gloomy. It was cloudy and drizzly a majority of the time. But lucky for us, the rain cleared out in the afternoon, so we went downtown for lunch.

We got a smorgasboard of delicious Polish treats, courtesy of [Polish Girl Catering](http://thatpolishgirl.com/). The kielbasa topped with kapusta (warm sauerkraut) was the perfect comfort food on a dreary afternoon. The pierogi and the golumpki (cabbage roll) were satisfyingly filling. We washed it all down with Warka beer as we tapped our feet to the music of a nearby Polish band.


The singer called out to the audience to see if anyone there was named Barbara, and there was a lady who raised her hand. So the band began to play “Barbara Polka,” and she got up with who I assume was her husband and danced along to “her” song while we all clapped to the beat.


With one last “Na zdrowie,” we finished our beer and walked away from the festival. The harmonic wheeze of the accordian followed us all the way to our car.

I loved college. I loved college so much, I went back and got my Master’s. And now I TEACH college. So every late August, when it’s time to get back to school, I get to don my backpack and my thinking cap with the rest of them. It’s a ritual I’m happy to keep in my adult life.

There are two college campuses in the heart of downtown Grand Rapids. One is the Devos (satellite) campus of Grand Valley State University (my alma mater) and one is the campus of Grand Rapids Community College (where I now teach). I’m an alum of one and a professor of the other.

Because of that, I get to enjoy the amenities of both. And I split up my day between them.

In the morning, I went to GVSU to enjoy the quiet and the solitude of the Steelcase Library. It was the week before classes started, and the campus was bustling with new students, but since they didn’t have anything to study yet, the library was empty. Tall ceilings, antique chandeliers, and a large stained glass window makes the room feel more like a church, and encourages silence, reflection, and reverence.


I always get nostalgic when I’m on this campus, because this is where I spent a lot of time with my husband. In our senior year, we would eat our breakfast of bagels and starbucks coffee in the Student Services building before heading in opposite directions to our classes. It’s a place where I’m comfortable, I’m familiar…I’m home.


Built in 2000, the downtown campus of GVSU is still young and fresh and beautiful, which also makes it stick out among the river’s skyline. It’s shiny and new and impressive. It keeps aquiring land and building new facilities from scratch, sprawling out along the riverbank. With its neon blue sign, it’s nearly impossible to ignore.


GRCC’s campus is much more integrated into its surroundings. If it weren’t for all the young kids with backpacks, it would be easy to miss.

GRCC’s campus had a more gradual growth, acquiring existing buildings one at a time. The buildings are all old and quirky. Many of them are built out of poured concrete, creating a hardscape of gray against the blue sky.


It is literally built into the city landscape; the college sits on the slope of large hill in the center of the city. Buildings have been cut into the hill to sit level, and slanted sidewalks leave students breathless as they struggle up the incline with heavy textbooks.


The campus is cramped; there’s nowhere to expand. So even though the facades of the facilities stay the same, the interiors are always changing, always updating, always evolving. As I would imagine the students are doing–while they may look as they did when they graduated high school, every year at GRCC changes their insides, updates their way of thinking, and helps them evolve into responsible and intelligent adults.

I haven’t been at GRCC long, but I’ve already learned to appreciate what it contributes to the city of Grand Rapids.

To ask me which college or which campus is my favorite would be like asking me to choose my favorite child. GVSU is like a newborn baby. It’s beautiful and perfect, but it’s just starting out. GRCC is like a teenager. It may have some years on it. It may not be so cute anymore. But it’s constantly figuring out what it is and adjusting to the world around it.

Lucky for me, I don’t have to choose.

*Photos of GVSU courtesy of their [website](gvsu.edu). For more information about GRCC, visit their [website](grcc.edu).*

I was raised Catholic. I was baptized, confirmed, and received my first Holy Communion in the Catholic church. I found myself a good Catholic man to marry in the Catholic church. But for a while now, church-going hasn’t been on my to-do list.

The church I grew up in was built in 1869. I’m used to the tall stained glass windows, the elaborate tabernacle, the ornate statues. My mother now attends a Catholic church that was built in 1958. It has one stained glass window. It has white walls and green carpet. It’s plain. It’s bland.

Granted, God probably doesn’t care what His church looks like as long as people in it are worshipping him. And that’s fine. But for me, it’s not a church unless it’s gilded, glamorous, and–most importantly–old.

Lucky for me, Grand Rapids has plenty of churches like that. So if ever I decide that I want to start spending my Sunday mornings in a pew instead of my comfy bed, I’m going to have plenty of options to choose from.


The Cathedral of St. Andrew, shown above, would be the obvious first choice, since it’s Catholic. It was built in 1876, and it has all the grandeur of years gone by. It’s tall and long and it has beautiful columns that support its domed ceiling. Stained glass windows line the aisle ways and the tabernacle is housed in what looks like a palace. It’s like my childhood parish on drugs. Which seems like a completely inappropriate thing to say about a church.

The Catholic faith and I haven’t really gotten on in recent years, though. I am pro-choice and I believe contraception can fix so many of America’s problems, and the Catholics don’t really agree with me. So if I were to make a second choice of where I might return to God, it would have to be the Fountain Street Church.


This church was built in the Italian Romanesque style in 1924 after a fire burned the previous 1869-built structure. It has all the charm of the past with all the tolerance of the present. Previously a Baptist church, as early as 1960, the church realized it didn’t want to be any sort of denomination. Now it brands itself as a liberal church and hosts the nearby community college’s diversity lecture series. They encourage their congregation to “engage in creative and responsible action in the world,” which is an idea I can definitely stand behind.

Neither of these two churches, however, are as old as St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, which was built in 1848 and is the oldest public building still standing, according to their website. Though it’s not as grand as St. Andrews or Fountain Street Church, its location is prime. Pearl Street dead-ends right into the church, making it hard to miss as you’re roaming around the city.


St. Mark’s might be the most prime location for parishioners, but Immanuel Lutheran Church has the most prime location for a view. Built in 1890, this church sits on top of the Medical Mile hill, making it easy to find no matter where you are in the city. It adds such a historical elegance to the modern, glassy hospitals that surround it.


That’s not really even scratching the surface of historic churches in the Grand Rapids area. I’m not even sure if we have any churches built after 1900. I suppose it’s a comfort for the worshippers of Grand Rapids to know that they are following the footsteps of the many faithful who came before them.

When I started this project, I thought the best way to handle it was to stay within city limits. There are lots of suburbs of Grand Rapids, and to extend the scope of the project to Kentwood, Wyoming, Grandville, Plainfield, etc., seemed too overwhelming both for me and any potential readers.

But part of what I love and what’s great about Grand Rapids is its proximity to other resources. For example, the city is 40 minutes away from Lake Michigan. There are handfuls of beautiful beaches in suburbs like Muskegon, Grand Haven, and Holland. I just hop in a car and within an hour, I’m stretching out on the hot sand and admiring the blue waves.

As I said in my [Farmers Market](http://jenniferfurner.com/day-2-fulton-street-farmers-market/) entry, Grand Rapids is surrounded by rural and farming areas. And as a born-and-bred country girl, I find that comforting. Whenever I pine for hay rides and pumpkin patches and apple picking, I don’t have to go very far out of my way.

But one of the things I miss the most about country living is the summertime fair. I miss the bright lights of the midway, the clouds of smoke and the roar of engines of the demolition derby and the tractor pull, I miss the sweet taste of sugar-cinnamon fried dough, and I even miss the stink of the animal barns.

Lucky for me, I don’t have to drive the two and a half hours home to the field from whence I came. While there are plenty of fairs within an hour’s drive from the city, I always choose the Hudsonville Fair. It’s nearby–it’s less than a half-hour away–and it feels like the fair of my childhood.

So when my husband texted me Wednesday afternoon and asked if I wanted to go to the fair, even though it was gloomy and a chilly 60 degrees, I agreed.

It was the night of the tractor pull championships, so we got ourselves some tickets and some junk food, found an open space of bleachers, and donned our ear protection.


I will always prefer the demolition derby over the tractor pull. I like to see crappy cars slamming into each other and getting destroyed. My husband, however, prefers to see marvelous machines demonstrating their strength and endurance. Whatever it is that makes either of us want to spend our evening deafening our ears with the roar of engines and polluting our lungs with the smoke of oil and gas has to come from our hillbilly upbringings.


But I’ve got no shame about it. It’s fun. It’s nostalgic. It’s part of the American culture. And I like it.

When the competition was done, we walked through the animal barns, patting goats on the head and petting bunny paws. Then we wandered through the 4-H exhibits, admiring the creativity of children. We split an elephant ear that was pure sugar and grease, wiping our messy fingers on our jeans. And then we said good-bye to the fair, good-bye for now, good-bye until next year.