The Challenge/Is This Home?

Dear Neglected Readers (You've doubled in number since the last time I addressed you this way),

Ironically, when your life is really rich with experience you have less time to write about it. So for this holiday season I'll give you a present: a whirlwind walk through of my life this fall. Lucky you.

I endeavor to write at least one post a day until the end of this year. In that time you should be duly informed on every minuscule detail of my life and will not feel the need to talk to me ever again. So starts the challenge.

Post 1:

Is this home?

The first year away from your parents is a huge transitional period for any college student. Most people long to go home at least once in their first semester. Many did in fact make the venture for Thanksgiving or various weekend excursions. I did not return until this break for practical purposes; a journey across the country is more time-consuming than is worth two days of rest. But I don't think I wanted to return anyway. For me, in the quiet moments (and by quiet I mean there's still honking, the sound of an old radiator clanking and screaming hall mates next door) sitting alone in my dorm room, my yearning to be home was subdued by the knowledge that I would no longer return to the house I had grown up in.

The old brick rancher had many faults. Years of remodeling consisted of replacing two bathrooms, tearing up pee-soaked, skin-irritating carpet, removing the entryway pillars, re-flooring the kitchen, a new heating system, dishwasher, laundry machine, sink, refrigerator, basement light, basement bedroom, and windows, more shades of paint than on an entire season of Bravo's Top Design, and more furniture shifting than a household that frequently suffers earthquakes. The yard weathered tumultuous seasons, a trampoline, two swing-sets, a grave, two hot-tubs, several birthday parties, a family of 12 Russians, gaggles of teenagers, golf-swing tread-marks, a pig roast, and years of doo-doo from a revolving doggie door that brought us a Dalmatian, a Labrador, a beloved Dachshund named Munchie, and our two current dogs Rudy and Celine. But after all the remodels and the outdoor apparel, that house became beautiful, even if you could scratch your head on the ceiling or still find ants crawling out of the top step to the basement.

It had what every house inevitably gains: the feeling of home. Years of life become embedded in the floor. Every passage through your hallway is a reminder of the many nights you spent with friends who vomited from drinking too much water of all things, who vomited from trying alcohol (a little more typical), who surprised you on your sixteenth birthday by pelting you with water balloons, who ate, slept, and laughed with you until 5 in the morning and begrudgingly left four hours later. Sitting at your dining room table for dinner you recall decorating for the many holiday seasons, coming home to a burnt spot on that table and a house full of drunken, costumed adults, dancing with a Jamaican man who randomly hopped the fence of your backyard, playing Quelf, Loaded Questions and other board games, sitting with your grandparents to fill them in on the news of the day. Walking into your bedroom you remember all the feelings of angst, all the nights lying awake worrying how you'd fare at the next music competition or how you'd be seen at school, all the nightmares falling into the abyss, all the pleasant dreams about friends you miss, all the happy nights when adrenaline kept you awake, and the creepy vision of the old man you watched die in that very room. And your couch. Oh your couch. Endless hours spent mindlessly watching television or napping or just plain doing nothing to decompress from the wild life you live outside your house.

But, everything that's good feels painful to lose so I guess it's a testament to the childhood I lived in that house that I miss the fluorescent-lit Bionicle Battles in my basement and the movie nights with cast mates. And however much I miss that house, I'm oddly freed by returning to a place I've never lived in. There's a sense of continuity, that this time of my life is resolutely about self-discovery, that I'm a floater, not quite ready to settle.

Separation makes you appreciate everything you loved about your corner of the world even if it had nothing going for it EXCEPT that it was your corner of the world. The familiarity, the intimate knowledge you have of its inner life, the peers you first learned how to be a friend for, the teachers you thought knew everything, the town you couldn't wait to get out of but also secretly cherished. It's at home where you don't feel guilty doing nothing but sit on your couch for hours on end. It's at home you feel like you can become invisible. It's at home where you remember your dreams and the gap that still exists between who you are and who you want to be.

For me, though, home isn't as fixed as I imagined it. I discovered truth to the phrase "home is where the heart is". I feel that inexplicable aura of comfort here in this new house. I felt it the moment my dogs licked my face in recognition of my scent after months away. My parents have filled their energy in this house and I can be safe here. But, I'm also sure now that I've spread this aura back on the other side of the continent. It was born of my parents but didn't come from them. I created my own home with my new friends in New York, who have taken this journey with me into the cliched but essential step into adulthood. We've tested the bounds of our late-night sanity, the balance between work and play, the tolerance of less than likable people, shouldered the burdens of each other's emotional baggage, discovered what's vitally important to us when no one else is acting as our conscience. It's with these people now that home is forming. It's not a home of accumulated history or square footage (No, definitely not square footage. I'm basically living in a closet.). It's arcane but we're starting to get a sense of place.

I may one day find another house that is a home. But for now, I don't need it. The illimitable power of friends and family presses itself upon me both here and there, and I am content.

Jamin