Home

"Home is where the heart is." That was the only lesson I ever retained from my years at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp. Our instructors were telling us about Chopin, who had grown up in Warsaw but moved to Paris. When he died, his body was buried in Paris, but his heart was buried in Warsaw. I don't know if that fact is true, it's been so long since I last heard it and there's always conflicting information and facts, but that was the only thing I ever remembered from theory class.

I live in a tiny town in Michigan, between Ann Arbor and Detroit. And I hate it. It's your average small town: ninety five percent of the population is white, everyone's doing some kind of drug, most of the people are homophobic and racist, and there's absolutely nothing to do. In my town, one kid in my grade was even sent to juvie for forty five days on twenty counts of sexual assault. But I digress, my point is that I've always hated Michigan, and it would never be my home.

I was wrong.

As far as I know, I have four homes. One in a blonde haired, blue-eyed girl; another in a pointy eared, curly-tailed mutt; a third in an old summer camp; the last across the country, just outside of Phoenix. Each one holds a special piece of my heart, and the best parts of me are from each of them.

I met my first home when I was ten. I was a shy geek at the time. I had long shaggy hair, rectangular wire glasses, and wore basically the same sweatshirt everyday with jeans. I didn't like venturing out of my comfort zone, but I took a gamble and did. I spent ten days at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp up in Muskegon Michigan in August, the summer before sixth grade. I was a band geek, admittedly, and extremely awkward with people. I was also staying in a cabin with ten strangers, so needless to say I didn't have the best time. But I had learned a lot about my instrument and music. I became a little more serious and dedicated to music, and attended again next summer where I met my second home: a girl my age with golden hair and blue eyes.

I had changed a lot during the school year, and came out of sixth grade more outgoing, but also a little broken after being exposed to an abusive relationship. I didn't wear glasses (even though I needed them), I was very into sports, and I became a little more jocular and sarcastic. I was secretly still very geeky and anxious, but I was determined to hide it.

I did my best, but this girl saw through me. On the night of the camp dance, I sat by myself on the edge of the pavilion. I didn't know it at the time, but I would later be diagnosed with anxiety and it turned out to be a panic attack. Anyway, my cabinmates could tell something was wrong but I wouldn't let them sit with me or talk to me. This girl attempted to talk to me several times, despite me telling her to leave me alone. I caught her watching me worriedly from across the dance floor a couple times, and we talked about it the following day by the pool. I didn't know it, but she would come to mean more to me than I would ever know. And she's still in my life today.

I've had my dog, Benny, since I was five. He was a surprise gift for my sister and I. Like the girl from camp, he came to mean more to me than I ever thought. Benny has separation anxiety, which means that I can't even get up to go to the bathroom without him following me. Sometimes it gets annoying, and sometimes when I get angry, I want him to leave me alone. He keeps his distance, but he never quite leaves.

I've been alone for a lot of my life. Not physically, but I was always the odd man out in my family. Everybody played tennis and were academically gifted. Me, I played lacrosse, hockey, football, fencing, snowboarding and ran track. My stepbrothers were in choir, and my sister plays violin and oboe. I play piano, guitar, bass, and drums. They excelled in math but struggled with or didn't enjoy English. English was my easiest class. I distinctly remember one birthday when we were eating at a restaurant and everybody was talking about tennis. I don't play tennis, so I just sat there, silently, the entire time. So I didn't necessarily fit in with my family, and I didn't have a lot of friends for a long time. But I had Benny. Benny never judged me or thought I was weird, he never yelled at me or made me feel stupid. He was and still is one of my best friends, and made living in that house bearable.

I don't hate my family. Not all of them, at least. But I have a strained relationship with my mother and stepfather. It wasn't because they married, but more so that my mother wasn't who I needed her to be. My mother wasn't nurturing like most mothers. She was blunt, realistic, and mature. But that meant I didn't get to be a kid. By the time I was seven, I was ordering my own food at restaurants. When I was ten, I started doing laundry by myself. It was helpful, being independent, but when I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression, she dismissed it. When I became crippled my sophomore year of high school, she pressured me to get better. Because of this, we tended to be at each other's throats. The only time I ever was happy was when I got to visit my family in Arizona or when I got to go to camp.

My family in Arizona was an actual family. They ate together, they planned activities together, and they all waited for each other when we were out. My immediate family in Michigan warmed up whatever was in the fridge for dinner, never hung out, and had a "every man for himself" mindset.

In Arizona, my cousins, sister, and I were always doing something together, or at least in the same room. We would play video games or board games together, or if needed quiet time, we would all lounge around the living room on our phones or watch my youngest cousin play Grand Theft Auto. We went to the park to play soccer together, we went hiking a couple times, and even played paintball, snowboarded, and drove dune buggies in the desert together. My aunt was even a better mother than my own: she worried that I didn't eat enough (I have a sensitive stomach), that my bad leg was hurting, or that my cuts got infected (I am also very accident prone). I never was afraid to speak or felt awkward with them, and it hurt when I left. Going back to Michigan was like being let out of a cage then being dragged back into the dark.

So even though I was born and raised in Michigan, it will never be my home. Because my heart isn't here, and home is where the heart is.

Home

A little thing I decided to write after getting homesick.