Beijing, China – July, 2005
(An old draft dated March 2, 2009)
I went home home to the MD/DC area this weekend. One of my favorite things about the English language is how when we wish to emphasise real things, we repeat them. Like, back in college we’d say “home-home” to distinguish between our parents’ home and our dorms, today I often say “food-food” to distinguish between well-made food and the stuff I always end up burning.
However, this morning we speak of home and family.
I like weekends at home-home. I hang out with the baby sister (she’s 23 now) and the parents, I discuss China’s position on emissions limits for the upcoming Copenhagen conference with my dad, I then talk to my mom about Arvo Pärt and classical music. Later, I get distracted and head to the basement to spend 45 minutes reading from Neruda’s “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.” And while I was flipping through that book yesterday, I came across a note my dad had written my mom on the backside of the cover.
He had gotten her that book as a gift and he wrote, in Spanish, something to the effect of “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.” I watch them interact and, after nearly 30 years of marriage, they still flirt and they both still try very hard to get to know each other. It’s cute and adorable and very real. In a lot of ways, my parents remind me what real love is like.
The past week has not been a good one. It’s been tough on a variety of fronts: personally, professionally, and academically. Law school, generally, can quite easily squash your spirit and self-esteem. And when those feel small and vulnerable, then the smallest breezes can push you down. This past week felt like one of squalls and I came out of it bruised, battered, and…raw. So I came home-home.
It dawns on me that, more often than not, when one is raised in a house full of love, books, ideas, music, and different languages, then it’s difficult to stay sad or to feel small. Because if we’re all connected and if the bonds are so strong…then how can anything at all really bring you down?
If all the books, movies, and music are part of me…and part of you, then we have bonds that tie us together. We’re connected.
If we all love and appreciate true, honest, and beautiful things, then we have bonds that tie us together. We’re connected.
If we are connected, then there is history.
If there is history, if there is a Story of Us, then that means we are empowered to decide the ending ourselves. Note that I did not say “I” or “you”, but “we”.
And if that is the case, then it seems a little bit silly to really think that squalls should have any lasting effect on any of us at all.
You are loved. And you are not alone.
(I’m the kid that looks like he’s about to lunge and smile-attack the camera. I had accidentally set it for a 2-second timer. Also, I seem utterly incapable of looking normal in pictures.)
Comments (8):
Home. I’m still trying to figure out where that is exactly (as in an actual place). For me, home is when my parents are around me. I wish I could have access to “home” more than twice a year.
Home can be very, very comforting. Glad you get to see yours often!
“Home” never fails me when I need it and I love that when I need to, I can curl up with The Moms and forget all the shit swirling around me.
Marie, I very much appreciate how close the parents are to me. The time I spent living in China was tough, but also made me appreciate it all the much more. But you are right, the notion of “home” as a place is determinative by who is around you than a physical place. The location can change, but the solid and important things – the Truths – rarely do.
DJ, I agree wholeheartedly. I also like how a mom hug can remind you that all the mess is a temporary thing. “This, too, shall pass.”
It is definitely a story of us. Especially in my family, it’s much more likely to be a story than a quilt, for instance.
I like to think we don’t ever write bad chapters; that instead the struggles are necessary developments in our character sketches; that they’re set-ups for triumph on pages to come.
You so far in front of everyone else is what makes the picture interesting. Really! And, heck, it’s your blog, you should “pop”. :)
“It dawns on me that, more often than not, when one is raised in a house full of love, books, ideas, music, and different languages, then it’s difficult to stay sad or to feel small. Because if we’re all connected and if the bonds are so strong…then how can anything at all really bring you down?”
Well put!
my parents were devastated the first time i referred to going back to VA as going “home.” they have a point – their home will always be “home,” no matter where else is also home :-)
Your post almost made me cry =) But just to add to what you said, I think that “home” is also that feeling you get when you call the parents after an awful day, or when you’re so stressed you feel like the walls are caving in. You just need mom to say things will be fine and dad to say something light-hearted, and you get that full feeling in your heart and gut. It makes you believe that things really will be ok, and that despite everything, you are looked after and loved no matter what.
It’s always good to see your parents happy and together. Gives one hope for the future.