So, on a personal note, let's talk housing. I love my condo, I love my roommate, I love my roommates dog, I actually love where I live. It's half mine, I am no longer renting rooms. It's a piece of property that I put my name on. Growing up in Stockton, Ca was a real wake up call to life. My whole life I have been grateful to have a roof over my head and a pot to piss in (my moms words not mine). The truth is, I actually never knew anything better. A single mom with 4 mouths to feed, the passing of a child, and no clue what direction her life was going. A brief education with odds and ends career that always secured she could pay rent. "Rent" has become a staple word in my life. Figure this as math 6 elementary schools, one middle school and 2 high schools. Who had time to attach to a childhood? My siblings became my best friends because they were thrown the roles of being the friends that I got to keep. During high school I became a mutt when it came to flashback picture day where all the seniors got to go back to elementary school and take a picture on the monkey bars where they hung as children. Sure I had many to choose from, but none I could call home. The purpose of this entry. Home. I know some people take for granted what the word "home" is. It is not merely the house you live in. It is the foundation of memory. It is where your thoughts run when they need comfort or a place to hide. A "happy place". Despite tragedies or upbringing, "home" is something you can touch and memorize. No one knows your house quite like you do. As for me...


I don't know what home is. I know it's a little "awww, poor thing" but in my view I was never sad about it, never poverty stricken. I knew no different. Sometimes to me, we had upgraded, things were well, raises were in place and I could tell all this because this time around we got a 2 bedroom for 6! I shared space with my sisters and brother and sometimes even my mom and stepdad. Though we had no space, we were never the type to say "stay in your own 3 feet of space!"; my side is your side. We created our own fantasy rooms. I can remember creating whole mansions and studio sets and arenas with my little sister. I carried few items with me. Clothes were the most important thing. As far as material things, only what could fit in a plastic hamper or small box. These were my treasure chests. Other items, presents, keepsakes, school projects... trashed in the move. There was no room for clutter, no room for extras. I can recall being overcome with relief and utter joy when this time around I had a bed. "Awww, poor thing". I knew no better, so the floor felt fine to me. Then the fold up cots felt fine to me. Then my broken twin size. then a mattress, then a futon, then the floor. For 2 weeks, the back of the Java Aroma building on March Lane. And yet I never would think of the words "Stay out of my room; I want a lock on my door!; I can't wait to MOVE OUT!"
Different upbringings. I am grateful for my mothers sacrifices, and I forgive her for her mistakes. When you have a similar upbringing, where are you to learn the example? Where do you go home to when there isn't a building standing in your mind? So no, I can't go back anywhere, can't move back in with the "rents". There is no one place I can dub "safe". It has built me to be me though. And love my roof, my carpet, my cheap ugly, broke down mediocre furnishings. I don't want to reside on the floor anymore, but if it came down to it, I know no better. And that's okay.
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