Oxford Dictionary defines home as “the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.” But for most of us, the word “home” is far more sentimental.
Photos: Lena KazerIn the quasi-adult limbo that is post-college, I would argue that for my millennial peers and I, “home” is far from permanent. In fact, I pride myself on the ability to fit my entire life into the two suitcases allowed by Southwest Airlines. When home changes several times in a small part of our lives, home is really more of a constantly evolving concept that changes as we change. Is home where our parents are, where we pay rent, or where we leave our retainers?
Photos: Lena KazerIn my search to find my “home” over the past two years, I have spent my time primarily focused on cities. I’m much like the duckling in the book Are You My Mother? – except I’ve been going around asking cities, not animals. In Confessions of a Commitment-Phobe, I assigned a city to each of my thriving multiple personalities in hopes of discovering which city (and personality) is quintessentially “me,” or the “me” I want to be. Now, I realize it was basically a doomed mission to personify a place, and fabricate a utopian life out of scrapbooked visions from films and pop culture (record player, chalkboard, home brew). The truth of the matter is, with or without a dream-future ahead of me, it’s time to move out of my mother’s house and resume buying my own vodka.
The other day I got on a long postponed Skype call with my friend Ma’ayan, a glittering seashell of a person who I’ve known since we were sixteen. (Our destined friendship began in Israel when we realized that we shared the uncanny ability to make ourselves look pregnant. It’s a gift.) As we caught up on life – Ma’ayan now engaged and moving from Manchester back to her hometown of San Diego, and me indulging in my own cynicism like buttered popcorn – I told her with great hopelessness that I didn’t know where to move, and she looked at me like I was crazy.
“Go where your friends are. Move to San Diego and be near me, or go be with your college friends in the Bay. It’s a no-brainer.”
She went on to say that while a job can be found in any city, and cities themselves have pros and cons, the people you live with and spend your time with are the most important.
Ma’ayan’s comment shattered my city-focused operation, and gave me the aha-moment I’ve been waiting for: it’s not the Brooklyn or Manhattan that define your life. At the end of the day “the scene” means nothing, and the people you love mean everything.
Part of me feared that moving in with my friends from college, or friends I knew in high school, would be a step backward; that it was a cop-out in some way to return to what is familiar and comforting instead of setting out to build a new adult life. The funny part is, Ma’ayan’s small comment changed my entire perspective on what those friendships mean to my life. Relationships, the good ones, don’t hold us in place – they comfort us as we grow.
When I’m with the people that make me laugh until I pee, I’m happy. Life isn’t complicated. When I’m without them, I find myself nitpicking stupid reasons to be unhappy (ex. another pair of jeans got a crotch-hole, I’m out of peanut butter, someone used the word ratchet again). None of that really matters. I miss the people who once pushed four beds together so we could sleep in a giant bed that allowed for greater activity space. I fell in love with the people who have don’t have time for Netflix, because they’re too busy creating a zine or composing lyrics for their all girls punk band.
The truth is, I need my people. We all need our people. So whoever they are, go to them. They are what will make home not just where you keep your Keurig, but where you feel safe and happy to be you.
So if Mr. Oxford says home is “the place where one lives permanently,” let’s live permanently in happiness. That’s the place I never want to leave again.
