06 August 2009

Home (Pronunciation: \ˈhōm\ Function: noun)

Middle English hom, from Old English hām village, home; akin to Old High German heimšeima family, servants, Sanskrit kṣema habitable, kṣeti he dwells, Greek ktizein to inhabit home, Lithuanian
before 12th century
1 a: one's place of residence : domicile b: house2: the social unit formed by a family living together3 a: a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment ; also : the focus of one's domestic attention <home is where the heart is> b: habitat4 a: a place of origin home to spawn> ; also : one's own country home and abroad> b: headquarters 2 <home of the dance company>5: an establishment providing residence and care for people with special needs <homes for the elderly>6: the objective in various games ; especially : home plate
at home
1: relaxed and comfortable : at ease at home on the stage>2: in harmony with the surroundings3:: knowledgeable on familiar ground at home in their subject fields>

I grew up carrying luggage.

In near constant motion I would move from family member to family member.
Partly out of convenience to my parents who were all but twenty when I was born, and partly out of a odd
juvenile form of wanderlust. I asked to move. I asked relatives if I could come for extended visits.
I traveled good distances in the summers. From age three until around twelve I was nomadic.

Or maybe I was a tourist. Homeless.

Being considerably older than three years old now, I am increasingly aware of the effects of my childhood affinity for travel has had on my later years. I grew up away from my parents. Thousands of miles away sometimes. I crossed a sea and began to speak differently from them, developed a palate unknown to my siblings, I grew to be comforted by foreign objects and cultural projections. A little american-born european.

When I came home the adjustment was always a struggle. Things would not work the same way, from door knobs to accepted behaviours. Words changed. People regarded me differently. Being a mixed race child in the eighties who had a continental accent and artistic tendencies was not so common. More so in the small North Carolina towns my mum began to live in with my step-father, who made it clear he disaproved of both me and my upbringing. Thus I never felt at home.

Home later came to be New Mexico. And now New Orleans, a place that while maintaining a absolute sense of United States bravado also recalls the cool grandeur of childhood landscapes.

I am still as displaced though. Having chosen the work that I do makes me even more of a vagabond, traveling from job to job with only school as an anchor. Will I ever buy a house? Will I ever plant a garden? Will I ever take root?
Eventually I imagine I have to. Right? Eventually you find a spot that is a fit and you find that you are quite comfortable. You have a job that is not in danger of becoming obsolete or does not end in six weeks, a house that you like quite well and begin melding yourself with it. Buying furrniture that is not partly disposeable or easily

Eventually I might get there, but being a little homeless has not worked out terribly for me. I suppose it makes me even more a world citizen not to be tied to one local, ventureing out on vacations and always returning to the same spot. Which sounds fantastic, I would very muck love to settle down with someone and plan exotic getaways. But for some one who has lived their life as an exotic getaway that can be a little claustrophobic.

Maybe I need to live aboard an areoplane, or a ship. But how does one garden on a plane?

(post suggested by Cassien G.)

1 comment:

Sergio said...

Girl, don't even think of settling down you're way too young and way too talented to "settle" for that life as of yet. Get your ass out there go on a European trip, aerlingus has some great NYC-Europe destination rates! I send you positive energy mec!