It was an average weeknight in Birmingham when I stood atop the Vulcan statue. I was looking at the city below, standing beneath Vulcan’s massive butt cheeks.

From atop the monument, I looked at my little town, laid out before me like a quiltwork of lights and streets. There was a young couple touring the statue at the same time I was. They were maybe 19. The boy was very affectionate with her, but she didn’t seem that into him.

“I love you, darling,” the boy kept saying.

“What time is it?” she kept saying.

I leaned on the guardrail and watched 1.11 million folks beneath me, buzzing like ants in an anthill. And I wondered what they were all doing inside their little homes down there.

Were they happy? Or were they all too busy running around to figure out whether they were or weren’t? Do these people watch reality television? If so, why?

Also, why do Americans fill up their garages with worthless junk, but park expensive cars in their driveways? Why do hotdogs come in packs of 10, but buns come in packs of eight?

Some questions will never be answered.

The Vulcan statue stands at 180 feet tall, altogether. He stands atop a pedestal high above Magic City. You can see him from all over town.

He is the Roman and Greek God of fire and the forge. Which is why the statue is made entirely of cast iron. This is also why he is butt naked. He is the largest metal statue made in the United States, which makes his buttocks the size of a small subtropical continent.

When I moved here a few years ago, friends all kept asking me, “Why Birmingham? What’s so special about Birmingham?”

At first I didn’t know how to answer them. Because I can’t explain it. Whenever people move to a new city, they usually choose a place with a big attraction, an ocean, a large lake, or at minimum, Disney World.

We chose a city with a naked statue.

But I couldn’t be happier here. Not only because Birmingham is a down-to-earth town with a lot of normal, everyday, working-class folks. Not only because my monthly water bill is roughly the cost of a three-bedroom beach condo. It is because—and I really mean this—there are breweries.

And also, because this is the city where I was reborn.

When we moved here, I was not in a great place, mentally or physically. We had gone through a lot. We’d lost family members and friends. In one year, I lost six people who were close to me.

Then, I developed some kind of funky stomach thing. The doctors thought it was cancer. I couldn’t eat much. I dropped weight. I was constantly going in for tests where college-age nurses and medical techs were always telling me to, “Drop your pants, please, sir.”

UAB Medical staffers love telling you to drop your pants, it’s one of the perks of the job. “Telling people to drop their pants just relaxes me,” says one UAB staffer.

Thankfully, the doctors found that I was okay. And after that, I sort of had a rejuvenating. Right here in this city. I do not know how to explain this. I’m still figuring it out.

The truth is, I had a dismal childhood. I was a dropout, a child of a broken home, and a suicide survivor. I have more mental baggage than a Samsonite rack at TJMaxx. But here in Birmingham I got a second chance at my own life.

Each day I feel grateful that I live here. I ride through the picturesque downtown; I pass the Alabama Theater; I cruise past Sloss Furnaces on my way home; I stop in at the Avondale brewery and have myself a brew.

Or I might be on my way home when I see Vulcan, in his birthday suit, standing tall above the highway. And when I look at him, buck naked, he reminds me that you do indeed get second chances in this life. They might not look the way you want them to. But rebirths are real. And good things happen in Birmingham.

If you’ll only drop your pants.