It’s been a while since my last
post (I wrote one last week but my computer ate it before I could get it
posted) so here is a quick review: I survived my Freshman year of college,
managed to pass all of my classes, and am now settled in at home. Home. What is
that again? If home is where your heart is then I need a bypass.
See, my heart has this knack for
dwelling in places it would be better to avoid. Since childhood I have always
been portioned out between two homes, eventually four families, but leaving for
college is what really put me over the edge. I don’t know if it is the tangible
distance between Graham, Washington and Portland, Oregon or if it is the time
away from everything I have grown to know, but either way the adaptations that
I have been forced into are taking a toll on my sense of familiarity.
The last few weeks at Warner were
rough because I was so ready to be done with school even though I recognized
that things would never be the same again. Sure enough I’m sitting on my couch
in Washington with my family today when it hit me: This is over. Never again
will I have the ability to yell down the hall and anticipate at least three
other responses. Gone are the days of shower parties and roommate nap time, philosophical
conversations from windowsills and 2am walks to the bleachers. All that I have
spent this year of my life acclimating myself to has come to a screeching halt.
How ironic is it that the
transition from home to school applies equally to the transition from school
back to ‘home’. In both cases I was ripped from the security of routine and
plopped into a new life without so much as a blink of anticipatory shock. Both
times I was forced to adapt to the environment that I was thrust into and was
expected not only to survive but to flourish, even in alien territory. The
difference here is that I am able to see the pattern and mourn it.
In a sense I have entered into a period
of mourning. I miss my friends, my family… My people. My life. It is not as if they are actually gone and I
recognize that I will likely see them again, but I can’t seem to fend off this
doubt that is nagging me: Could I have done or said more to make clear my love
for them? Do they have any idea what impact they have had on my life? Some
people got letters… still, David will never know that his willingness to help
me with math kept me from dropping the class. Steven will remain oblivious to
the fact that his brotherly support showed me what Warner Pacific Community
could really look like, Deborah won’t have any idea how deeply her courage
inspired me, and the library staff might overlook the tremendous hope that they
instilled in me.
With so much to love and be
thankful for it is proving near impossible to sort out my loyalty when it comes
to defining my ‘home’. At school I remember always referring to my family’s
house as ‘home’ but I realized today that I now refer to school as ‘home’ so
where the heck does that leave me? I suppose since a young age I have
automatically referred to myself as an outsider, or a ‘visitor’ of sorts, and
that fits now more than ever. But it begs the question(s): If I am a visitor in
my own home, was it ever my home to begin with? Has the home changed or have I?
Most importantly, what do I do about it??
As per the usual my attempt at some
semblance of an explanation has only stirred up more questions. While I would
love to end this post with an affirmative conclusion regarding the true nature
of my identity, you and I both know that I would be lying through my teeth. Dealing
with conflicting ideals has always been a skill of mine though so I won’t give
up just yet.
