David Bishop

Dr. Teague

ENC 1101

February 13, 2017

Home

What is a home? Is it a long driveway filled with memories of sidewalk chalk and

scraped knees? Is home a worn out couch set right next to an old grandfather clock that probably

belonged to some deceased relative? Is it the place you grew up in? Or the last place you lived?

Is it your mothers or fathers house? This is what comes to mind when most think of a home,

and at one point, I thought this too. However, as I moved away from Jacksonville, lost touch

with the people there, and began finding myself as an adult, I have started to look differently on

what I can consider a home for myself.

I have lived in the same house practically my whole life. From the moment I could walk

to the day I loaded up my car and headed West to my own great frontier, Tallahassee. The one

story brick house on the corner of Point la Vista and Morena Lane was my home. One of my first

memories is tripping over untied shoelaces as I pushed open the glass kitchen door, fogged with

my own breath, and stumbling across the street to our neighbors, who would soon be one of my

best friends. I grew up in a neighborhood of all boys around the same age as me, and of course I

had my older brother. Bicycles and skateboards were the means of transportation and bets and

dares were the form of currency within the San Marco neighborhood. Not a day went by where I

wasnt comfortable, even the time when the blonde haired boys across the street and I tried

smoking cigarettes for the first time in 7th grade to try and act cool. We definitely werent cool,
as we cried to our mothers later that night because our cheap cologne didnt quite cover the smell

of those Marlboro cigarettes. Even though at times mother was mad, I still had breakfast in the

morning. The feeling of the cold floor hitting my bare feet every morning was uncomfortable,

yet still inviting to my French toast and bacon as I walked past the living room. Every day after

high school I would sink into our paisley couch and rest my feet on the glass coffee table,

completely covered in scratches. This was my home, for I always thought that home was the

place you grew up in, surrounded by your family and friends and familiar surroundings. Home

was the same bed I have slept in for eighteen years and the same household scent on my clothes.

But this is what I used to think.

Now Im away from the quaint suburban neighborhood in Jacksonville. Neighbors are no

longer across the street but rather across the dormitory hall. The relationship I had with my

parents is fading. Weekends where I would trek back to Jacksonville would end in arguments,

slammed doors, and fallen tears. Going home was like wearing concrete boots to swimming

lessons; you know it wouldnt end well. I dont feel the same inviting feeling from the cold floor

on my feet when I walk to the kitchen. And instead of breakfast, I find an empty kitchen counter

along with an empty drive way. The neighbors across the street have packed up and moved. And

to add, our family couch just doesnt feel quite the same. I dont feel comfortable being there.

The house still looks the same. It is still there, sitting on the corner with the same yellow fire

hydrant out front. But I just dont see those familiar bricks, pillars, windows, and doors as a

home anymore. I have grown away from the idea that home is the place where you grow up. I

believe that I should not call a place my home if I do not feel as if I am enjoying the time I spend

there. That house is no longer a home to me. So for a while, during my latter months of summer
and first of months of fall, I felt as I was in limbo, not knowing where to call home or what to

even consider a home. I was lost.

Now, living on my own in Tallahassee, Ive put quite a few miles on my car. I feel almost

as a vagabond as I venture every weekend to find a concert to see or a place to camp. Ive spent

countless nights sleeping in a car, tent, motel, or another colleges dorm. I wasnt getting the best

sleep but definitely gaining the best experience. I am gradually starting to regain my confidence

in finding a place where I belong. Venturing off and finding new places is slowly helping me to

transition from feeling lost to feeling secured. It sounds strange to say that because I am not in a

single place, but maybe I wasnt meant to stay grounded. Weekend journeys or even everyday

adventures are honestly just times where I wander, and I am starting to realize that maybe this is

what I am looking for. To wander, but with a very loose goal set in the back of mind. And that

goal is to seek enjoyment for myself. Thats what I truly enjoy, venturing into the unknown and

seeking out the adventures in life. Thats when I feel at rest. Thats when I feel at home.

So yes, my perspective on what I believe to be a home has changed. Growing up all the

way through high school, I truly believed that that one story brick house was my home. But I

believed that because I had not truly discovered who I was yet and what I believed in. I had not

yet discovered what it felt like to be adventurous and on my own. I had come from believing that

home is a place where you grow up. A place where your family and friends live. But now I

believe it is something else. Yes, my family may live in the same house, but that doesnt mean

we get along very well. It feels as if two bulls butting heads when I go home. And I dont think

its fair to call a place your home if you dont enjoy spending time there. I have come to realize

that home is where you make it. I could be miles away camping in the Smokey Mountains, yet

still feel at home. I could be in a large crowd listening to the deafening sound waves leaking
from an electric guitar at one of my favorite bands shows, yet still feel at home. As long as Im

seeking adventure or finding a place I love and doing something that makes me happy, I feel at

home.