Home

What is home?

Is it the house you were born in? There are crayon marks on the walls from when you were three. You remember running down green carpeted floors, racing your brother to the bathtub. The chairs by the kitchen island would spin. You used to bang the edges on the table. There were chips in the marble. You have a permanent scar from when you hit your face on the coffee table. You used to roll down the hill outside, or climb on the playground in the backyard. You remember being afraid of the dogs, so you’d hide behind your mother. You remember letting the cats in through the window, or playing with the kittens in the barn. Life hadn’t hurt you, yet.

What is home?

Your parents sold the house. The new buyers painted over the horses on your wall and the forest animals in your brother’s room; painted over the memories you had there. You boarded a plane, and never went back. The airplane was cold, and your nose got all clogged up. You couldn’t sleep and you couldn’t stay awake. The air was heavy and hot when you walked outside the airport. People shouted in a different language; the taxi driver was chatty but you didn’t know what he was saying. The hotel smelled funny. Hotels were supposed to smell nice. Your family explored outside but you threw up the moment you stepped out the door. The tile floors felt odd beneath your bare feet. The other Americans always stopped by the say, "Hello." You had a friend but your dad didn’t like her. You hated to wear shoes and you loved the dirt between your toes. The children ran inside the compound when it rained. They rollerbladed and biked and scraped their knees. The Boy’s Club wouldn’t include you, but they’d play pretend with you outside the confines of their society. You forgot what is what like to be cold.

What is home?

Your parents changed their minds. They packed all of you onto a boat, you liked the way your hammock swung with the waves. This house wasn’t as big as the other one, but you had the yard all to yourself. Everyone liked your blue eyes and blonde hair. Everyone liked the feisty American girl. You had only one friend. She was smaller than you, younger. You weren’t sure if you liked her or not. The boys gave you lots of attention. You basked in it. The medicine lined the hallway. The sound of your brother learning piano echoed on the cement walls. You hid in your bedroom when the movie was too scary. Your dad made popcorn enough for the whole family and ate it all himself. There were always ants in the sugar. You talked about the Bible on the porch while eating rice and beans. You sat away from the group next to the boy who liked you. You liked that he liked you. The other boy who liked you called you a "queen". You liked that he liked you. You thought there was no one cooler than your brother, with his skinny jeans and his selfies. Your sister was never home.

What is home?

You had to leave behind your Beanie Babies and your books. You cried when you said, "Goodbye," to the boys who liked you. For the first time, you decided you wanted to die. You looked at the rolling waves while the boat rocked and wondered how long it would take to drown. Your family left all their stuff in your grandma’s living room. You laughed about being homeless. You Skyped with that boy who liked you. You were getting tired of him, but you still kept his picture by your bed. Your parents finally let you go to school. You liked that your uniform showed your knees. You flirted with the boys in your class. You loved your teachers. Even your science teacher. You got your teachers Christmas presents. You became a cheerleader. You liked a boy on the basketball team. He sat next to you in science class. You sang at the talent show. The high school boy hit on you and for the first time, you were scared of a boy. You wore makeup for the first time. It didn’t snow enough at Christmas. You wore orange for picture day. You slept on a mattress on the floor. The house belonged to someone else.

What is home?

The trucks bumped and banged into the potholes outside your window. You hated your parents for moving again. It smelled like dust in the apartment. Your dad threatened to send you to school. It wasn’t the same as in America. Your friends lived four hours away. Your cat didn’t much like you. You hated your sister but you couldn’t remember why. You took selfies alone in your room. You gave your heart to celebrities and bands because there were no boys around to love. You made plans; you formed dreams. You wanted to die. You wrote stories in your mind when you couldn’t sleep. You wished those stories were your life. You wrote stories on the computer. You read stories on the internet. You learned what sex was from the internet. The world was too loud. You were alone. Your mom told you that someone died. You felt like a monster for feeling nothing. You scraped at your skin to feel something. It wasn’t enough. You cut your hair. Maybe different hair would make you a different person.

What is home?

Everyone pitched in to make the shell of a house into a home. But it always felt like construction. There were bats in the ceiling. The lights turned off at nine. Your mom yelled at you. Your hair was growing back, slowly. You dyed it purple. Your dad told you that you needed to change. You just wanted to go home. You didn’t know where that was. You wanted to die. You walked alone along thorny paths, letting the music in your ears take you somewhere else, somewhere better. You wrote stories to escape. Your cat wandered outside. She was never home. You memorized the long, bumpy drive from the city to your house. You had no friends to talk to. You felt less alone when you read your books. But you were alone.

What is home?

Another packed up car, another new house. You had your own room now. You were learning the piano. You talked to boys on the internet to feel less alone. You walked down the dirt road to sing where no one could hear you. You were failing high school. Your dog was your only friend. Someone in the city texted you. She became all you had. You decided you liked girls and boys. You decided it was okay to like both. You wrote more and you read more. Your dad said it was unhealthy. You told him you were depressed. He said you’d get over it. You didn’t say it again. You asked your dad what he thought about people who self-harm. He said they were attention whores. You covered your arms and didn’t ask again. You found God. Things started to look okay. Your dad threatened to make you do senior year over. You wanted to die. You didn’t want to live anymore. You couldn’t stop being a bad person. Your dad kept telling you that you were wrong. You didn’t know what was right. You heard them talk about you through the walls. You said nothing. They said you had so much potential. You didn’t believe them.

What is home?

Your heart wouldn’t stop pounding when you found your nametag. They gave you your key and took your ID picture. You hated that picture. Your roommates hugged you. Your mom cried when she drove away. You followed your roommate; she looked like she knew what she was doing. She introduced you to people. You started to make friends. You’d never really had that before. You complained about your early classes and your boring job. Your roommate cut you off; you still don’t know why. You found a boy who liked you. Everyone called you a lesbian. You dated the boy who liked you. You pierced your arm with pencils to feel something. You worshipped with your hands in the air. Your body shook, your lungs emptied, your vision blurred. Panic attack, they called it. You decided you hated New York City. You decided you loved it Upstate. You decided you loved your boyfriend. He called you his best friend before walking away. You couldn’t escape his face, in the classroom or the dining hall. He was everywhere. But not with you. Your roommate said you tried to steal her friends from her. You cried yourself to sleep. You had no one. You were surrounded by people but you were alone.

What is home?

From cabin to cabin, week by week. New groups of girls to hate you. Some called you, "Mama," some wished they’d never met you. You sat in the sun by the beach while they played. Your co-counselors reported you to your leader. She said you followed the rules too closely. You called those boys your brothers and the campers believed you. Even you started to believe it. You called the other one your husband. Your campers believed you. People would laugh when they saw you and hugged you tight. You started to understand what it felt like to be loved. You saw an old friend and couldn’t breathe. You cried when you thought of him. You hated him, but she held your hand and protected you. These people gave pieces of their lives to you. They held you, they confided in you. Your best friend got tired of being hurt by you. She gave up and left you behind. You couldn’t blame her.

What is home?

They forgot about you. You moved to Chicago to start college. Only one boy tried to talk to you and when you said you couldn’t love him the way he loved you, he got tired of you. People who swore they loved you stopped texting you back. You couldn’t leave your room. You sat silent in your classrooms. You dropped French – it was too hard. Your biology professor didn’t like you; you didn’t know why. A classmate wanted to be your roommate next year. You didn’t know how to say, "No." Your roommate didn’t hate you. She changed how you saw the world. You smoked weed in the parking lot. You met a boy online and let him have your body. You cut your arm to feel something. You wished you could cry instead. You shaved your head. You watched movies alone in your room. No one can hurt you that way. Your roommate was hurting; you felt helpless because you couldn’t do anything for her. You tried to make friends. They didn’t seem interested. You stopped going to the dining hall. It was easier to eat in your room. You saw a girl get hit by a car. You secretly wished you could take her place. You realized that you were destined to give every bit of yourself to people you met while they gave you nothing of themselves. People who talked to you had someone else they preferred. You would always be second best.

What is home?

You cried until you couldn’t breathe when the sun went down. The springs of the pullout couch bruised your legs. You couldn’t shower or get out bed. You could only eat one meal a day. No one would hire you. Your boyfriend was all you had. He decided he didn’t want you. The bathtub was cold, the knife was sharp. You daydreamed about dying. You wanted to write but couldn’t find the words. You tried to keep your friends. They didn’t respond. You tried to think of people who would miss you. You realized that the only people who stay are the ones that have to. You can’t escape family. Your ex-boyfriend still calls. You feel nothing even though you’re sure he broke your heart. You’ve never felt more alone. The basement is dark. You daydream about a sunlit apartment, a small dog, a lonely couch. You remember when he held you in his sleep. Even then, he didn’t want you. He held you when you cried. Your chest hurts from every tear you’ve cried. You know you should call someone but you don’t. You sliced up your arm in the bathroom. Your dad was disappointed in you. He decided you don’t want him in your life. He threatened to take college away from you. You know you’d kill yourself if he did. The only person you had left is the boy who didn’t feel the same.

What is home?

Is home the house in Columbus? Is it the guest house in Altamira? Is it the house in Porto de Moz? What about Grandma’s house? Virginia’s house? The apartment in Lubango was close. Maybe the house in Shangalala? The house in Cavango? Word of life? Wheaton? What is home? Is there even such a thing? You thought you’d found a home in the sunlit hotel room, with his arms around you. But that morning didn’t last forever. You gave up on the word “home.” "Home is nowhere," you whisper into the darkness around you, nowhere is home.

“The place where one lives permanently,” Home is nowhere; nowhere is home.