Home

It’s hard to feel at home now. Growing up, phrases like “You can’t go home again” struck me as odd. As a teenager, despite any tiffs I got in with my parents, I knew that when things got tough I could go home to where I’m loved and accepted; Even if I’m not understood. On my most recent sojourn in Pennsylvania I stayed with my family that gathered for the first time in two years together in my parent’s home. I walked to my bedroom, and through the familiar pokey halls and drafty rooms thinking about an earlier experience. Our extended family had been gathered together in an Uncle’s home to celebrate someone’s birthday. I was a little kid, probably seven years old, and I wandered to Todd’s bedroom. Todd was my cousin who had recently left for college, though he was home for this particular event. His room was immaculate. The bed was made. There was Pitt paraphernalia carefully organized on shelves, and the walls. The only idea that anyone had been in the room was a duffle bag at the foot of the bed. Clothes half spilled out, looking like a crouched cat that is tentative to enter a new territory for the first time. This image of the college student’s room always stayed with me. When I was back in PA for Christmas I sat on the edge of the bed that was carefully made, and stared at the BYU-Idaho pennant hanging on the wall, and the carry-on suitcase near the door. I knew that although I grew up here, I didn’t belong anymore, and all I wanted was to go back to where I did feel at home. The last time I felt truly at home, I was at a party. My roommate is into this social scene, and she loves to throw parties at our apartment and have it be talked about and meet new people. I’m definitely not in the same boat. During the beginning of this particular event I paced back and forth between the back rooms and the front porch in order to disguise my social unease. This was my apartment and I did not feel like it was home. Eventually Ivor showed up, followed by Brittany and Doug. None of these people were into this scene and we all clustered together on the couch, forming a protective bond that kept all unwanted new acquaintances away. Being on that couch, with those people who I didn’t need to impress and who weren’t trying to impress me or anyone around me, I recognized this feeling of comfort that I had while growing up in my parent’s home. Though I still am able to enjoy this feeling of home while at school I feel that it comes less and less; and I wonder where the next place that I find it will be.

I'm Spineless (1)

My roommates are giggling as they look up palm reading on the glowing Apple notebook. We’re all excited for the party we’re throwing that night. It’s become an annual event with my one roommate and myself. We’ve been preparing all day; searching out D.I. costumes, fun foods, and all the right ghostly trimmings that are required for a memorable Halloween party. I put down the polyester cobwebs and plop in between the two sitting on the sofa and offer my left hand.

“Tell me my future, Madam Drusilla.” I say in a mock awestruck voice. We take this thing very seriously.

Kjirstin grasps my hand and leans over it. She begins her newly learned mysticism in a thick accent. “You vill meet a maun.” She says slowly and mysteriously. We all burst into laughter. “Okay, okay! It says the shape of your palm means you do things quietly and intuitively. You have shallow lines which means…” She turns away and scrolls up on the web page. “Shallow lines mean you are easily manipulated by others.”

We continued looking at each other’s palms and making up fake fortunes since none of us really believed in it. Though, even days after, I would look at my palm when my mind wandered in class or at church, or when I was just taking a moment to myself. I would trace those lines with my fingertips and will them to be deeper.

I grew up having a close relationship with my brother. Being barely two years younger than him I always sought his attentions. Everything he did was cool and exciting. It wasn’t uncommon to be pulled away from my recreation by him to listen to his ideas, to a story that he came up with that went along perfectly with about thirty different popular songs at the time; each one having to be listened to in order and with lengthy explanations to follow and precede each.

When I was beginning to pick something in my life to write about for a personal essay I continued to be influenced by this idea of my feeling manipulated by those around me. My third draft I began listing off experiences with people where I’ve felt manipulated. Of course, there was my brother; my friend Deb, she was a professional, had her own apartment, her own car… and she took it upon herself to help me find a wardrobe that wasn’t combat boots and hippie skirts. I thought about my parents and how they would remember details about my childhood and I’d play into those memories.

I thought of past relationships, how I would tire of trying to become what I thought they wanted in a girlfriend. How around my roommates I listen to the kind of music they listen to and forget about my favorite artists because I know they don’t appreciate that.

As I’m writing this draft I look back trying to discover why I was allowing myself to be treated like this I didn’t see any manipulation coming from these people. I wasn’t being manipulated into altering my musical tastes. I was listening to their music because I wanted to have something in common with them. I realized that the feeling of manipulation was coming just from myself. I was manipulating myself into thinking that if I changed, or did what I thought they wanted me to do, I would be accepted by them. I’m seeking their approval.

Even with this paper. Through five drafts and three different topics I know I was just trying to write something that would impress the other people who would read it. I’ve sat in seminar and listened to the honesty that fills Brit’s writing as she opens her relationship with her father out in front of everyone. I’ve sat there while Matty got up and bore his soul. As I went through sessions I would take input and opinion and write it as fact. This is what they want; betrayal, disappointed expectations. If this is what I write, I can become their equal.

Now as I look at the lines on my palm I wonder what decisions I made to make others happy. I consider every little moment in my life that could possibly have been affected by this. I didn’t even know about BYU-Idaho until I met Deb and heard her stories of the two semesters she spent here. I never would have met my boss, Sister Morgan, without knowing Ivor who used to work where I do now. It scares me, this need to please those around me. What else in my life will it affect if I don’t find a way to please myself?