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The Second Great Migration
ATLANTA — A year ago this week, I packed some bags and left New York City for Atlanta.
I’d lived in New York for 26 years. The city made me feel awake and alive — buildings tickling the sky, trains snaking underfoot. There was a seductive muscularity to the city, a feeling of riding the razor between your destiny and your demise.
I had become a New Yorker, a Brooklyn boy. There I had raised my children. There I planned to live out my days.