Home — A Word of the Week
(Noun) One’s place of residence; the social unit formed by a family living together; a familiar or usual setting.
(Verb, intransitive) To go or return to one’s place of residence or origin; to go or return home.
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I just moved into my new place. Almost everything is out, unpacked, and has its place. This is my fourth move that required a U-Haul truck in less than a year. My sixth overall move if you count moving from building-to-building on two different campuses. I think this one is going to stick, though. It’s exciting to be in and settled in a new place. It’s even more exciting as I hunker in and feel truly at home for the first time in almost a year.
What feels “homey” varies from person to person. For me, it’s having my things, my aesthetic, out in blast. It’s my wire shelves of kitchen appliances, my Pier 1 ram skull (named Connie) looking out from a similarly high shelf, shelves of displayed games, media, and tchotchkes…lots of shelves, now that I actually think about it. Lots of display. Function to accommodate form. Black furniture whenever I can help it. Black goes with everything. That general layout has been a consistency throughout my moves, as long as I have moved.
Before I could even remember, I lived in a condo at Chicago Ridge, Illinois. I have no memory of this, only old camcorder recordings of holidays, just me, my mom, and my dad. A stuffed dog being dragged everywhere. Thick carpeting. A Christmas tree in front of the balcony door. A haze and a lens flare that only came from recordings in the 90s.
We moved to Hammond, Indiana sometime later. Memories are still hazy, but I could remember the vague layout. My room that I shared with my brother, eventually brothers. The bathroom where I learned to use the toilet. The dining room where we seemed to share every meal, the kitchen where we would sneak anything sweet we could, the stairs leading to the basement, the basement itself. Blue siding. An enclosed backyard. Parties and celebrations. Familiar, but vague. It felt like home because of the people.
Munster, Indiana is much clearer. I lived there until college. Had rooms, both shared and my own, throughout the whole house. Everything from the most compact space and the largest basement sprawl to our literal front room was mine at some point or another. I could trace different eras of architecture, before walls were filled it, before new exits were installed, or different kitchen layouts plugged in. It was where I started to come into my own of what I wanted my space to look like. Expressing myself through what I had helped it feel like home, even as that space changed.
I went to college in Valparaiso, Indiana and pared down the belongings that came with me. I was specific. Selective. Adaptive. I made do with what I had, both in terms of possessions and space. Reassembled beds so my partner and I could (sort of) comfortably spend the night. Different buildings every year. But it felt more like home because of the people I was around, and wanted to be around, all the new friends I was sharing the experience with.
Our first apartment in Muncie, Indiana felt like a haven in an otherwise stifling town. Howell, Michigan was much the same: a bastion in an area that never seemed keen on us. We were excited to be home so we could comfortably be ourselves, whatever that was, and we tended to gravitate towards it. Home was where we could be most comfortable.
I moved to Forest Park, Illinois, and even in a room that barely fit my Twin XL bed and vertically-stacked milk crates, even with a distinct lack of A/C, even with the knowledge that I was using it as a between-jobs space, it still felt like home. It was in a hub. It was walkable. I could go places, whether nearby on the bus or by foot, or into Chicago via train. I still have a favorite sandwich shop around there, and an ice cream shoppe, and have mental maps to all of the important and favorite spots in-between and all around: grocery stores, car rental spots, my old storage unit, even though I only lived there for a few months. Home was more than a place for me to rest and cook; home was an area, a region.
Even as far away from “home” as I’d ever been, I made New London in Connecticut feel like home, too. It was foreign to everything I’d known before, but the people made it homier. The proximity to them. Being able to walk to them in a matter of minutes, and have them able to walk to me. Sharing my space with them, for an evening, a weekend, overnight, simply because we could. Surrounded by my things. Making a space entirely my own, for the very first time. Home was possibility and proximity. The familiar elements and objects, married with the new location.
Saginaw was different. I had my things, I had a space, but it never felt like a home. It felt like a waypoint. It felt temporary. Even as I grew to love the people around me, it couldn’t be enough to keep me anchored for anything more than a paycheck. But that recognition helped. It spurned me to find a home.
Now I come nearly full circle, having moved back to Hammond on new terms. I am only so many city blocks away from the first home I remember. I’m surrounded by people I’m more comfortable around, not because they’re like me, but because they’re not. I’m surrounded by the food that, in my absence, I recognize and appreciate far more. Familiar, yet hazy, memories being clarified by what’s still standing decades later. I’m closer to friends and family than I have been in years. A chance to make what I remember truly mine. Everything familiar is new again. Everything new has a chance to be familiar. My things are all unpacked. The space is my own.
So is a home just a house, or an apartment that you can call your own? Or is a neighborhood? A region? A location? Is it where your stuff is? Where your people are? Where they’re closer? Where the food is best? Where you’ve already been, but now with new eyes, and a perspective that helps you appreciate it more?
To me, a home is all of that. But most of all, it’s a place where I invest in, of all things, a rubber address stamp. It’s a place I’m excited to tell my address book of friends where I’m at now, where they can send letters, where they can find me. It’s a place where, for any number of reasons, I want to be for a long time to come.
