I come from a town divided. Texarkana, Texas, USA. I barely made it into our ne Republic. The town is positioned, geographically, in the northeastern corner of the state, with half of the city proper hanging over into Texas and the other half juttin’ over into Arkansas. “Texarkana is Twice as Nice!” is what the water tower says. Stateline Avenue splits the municipality right down the middle and if you follow it all the way downtown you’ll run smack into the city post o ice that sits right atop the bi-state dissection. There’s a sign there to prove it. It’s a scarecrow post type situation with two metal objects hanging out to either side of it, one in the shape of Texas and one in the shape of Arkansas. At the foot of the sign there is a white line painted on the concrete. It’s presumed to be a photographic opportunity.
I moved from Texas to Georgia a few years ago. Atlanta, GA, to be exact. When I rst got there, I landed in a pretty rough part of town called, Atlanta. That’s a joke you can make if you live in Atlanta. We get to make that joke. You cannot. Until you have a permanent address with a water bill to prove it. The speci c part of Atlanta I landed in is called, Cabbagetown. It’s a quaint mill town with shotgun houses all gridded in near proximity to the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill. The company that built the mill originally o iced out of the former Atlanta Slave music.

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