Home Sweet Home
I leave home in a few days to return to college. This isn't my first semester so my return isn't a novel experience, but each trip to campus is awe inspiring to me. I'm grateful to have the opportunity to receive higher education and continue pursuing my academic interests. But I'm even more grateful that I have a home to come back to. College doesn't last forever. At some point you'll have to come "home," or find "home." To me, home isn't the roof over my head. It's where my family is. It's where I feel safe and comfortable.
Let me tell you, my home is loud. My younger siblings love to laugh and learn. If there's not a debate at some point of the day – never at the dinner table though – something is wrong. I wouldn't want to mute my home because then it wouldn't be home.
And my home is full. I'm not complaining about sharing a room with my sister, I'm complaining about my books. This might seem trivial to you but I really love my books. I love the feel of turning pages in my hand. I love the power in the stories, word choice, and narrative style. I even love the smell of a used book (it's almost like vanilla, assuming the book wasn't placed next to a block of cheese, haha). But at home I have to pile my books high on top of my dresser, many covers blocking other and even more collecting dust. It's quite a large space considering the quantity of books, but it doesn't provide the books the display they deserve.
There are two solutions my mother reminds me of time again: (1) invest in an e-reader, and (2) sell some books. I'm sure (1) will happen eventually, considering my academic workload and the cost efficiency of a tablet. When it does, I'll be glad. But that doesn't replace the sentimental value of my books. Regarding (2), no. Sell them? No. Sure I maintain the crisp cover, unmarked spine, and unwritten pages that will bring in a few bucks. But an industry can place a value on the books, I can't. Where people are home, books feel like home because they reflect the narratives of the people in my life that matter to me. I have on the occasion given away books or donated them. This I can do. It means sharing the meaning of the author's words with another. It means spreading the power and knowledge behind each print. It means making a difference.
I am rarely seen leaving my home without a book in tow, and recently I carry around two: the one I am currently reading and my current favorite. A few months ago in April, I was walking a park. It was a fair day and I walked without aim, hearing the birds chirp, watching the clouds float, that kind of thing. Well, after a few minutes or hours (I wasn't keeping track and one can never be certain when you're absorbed in thought), I found a bench and had a seat. Short while later a woman walked past, sobbing. She was cleanly dressed, every hair in place, not a stain or wrinkle in sight. I want to say she dropped something of utmost importance and I retrieved it for her, a great bridge into a conversation. But she didn't drop anything. Half a block length later, she stopped walking, stood in the middle of the path, and continued weeping. I walked over to her and offered her a tissue. Considering that this is the middle of New York City and not everyone has good intentions, I understood her confused and slightly scared expression. To be honest, I was equally surprised in myself. But it got her to stop crying, right?
I told her my name and that I was a student. I wasn't following her, merely concerned about her state. Are you okay? She nods yes, making no move to step away nor relaxing her shoulders. I had something for her, I said. As if on automatic, I reached into my bag and pulled out Don Quixote. It is a wonderful story of adventure, imagination, and following what you believe to be true. I placed it in her palm. I said I hope it brings some joy and clarity. With a smile, I turned around. She didn't speak. She didn't stop me.
I returned the following week. Same time, same place. She wasn't there. After 3 hours, the rain broke through the clouds, telling me it was time to go home. It's been 9 months since. I've yet to return. I'd be lying if I said I'm not curious about her. I want to know if she read the book, if it helped in any way. But even if it didn't, I don't regret giving away the book. She needed to smile more than I.
I once read that charity is a privilege only the rich have. Whether you think that's true or not, remember that there's always something you can give, from a book to a smile. So here's to homes, books, and tears. Be grateful for the roof over your head and the food you eat and the clothes you wear. Times are getting harder for everyone, but I have a loving family, an optimistic outlook on life, and am still given the opportunity to pursue a degree. That's more than enough for me.
Let me tell you, my home is loud. My younger siblings love to laugh and learn. If there's not a debate at some point of the day – never at the dinner table though – something is wrong. I wouldn't want to mute my home because then it wouldn't be home.
And my home is full. I'm not complaining about sharing a room with my sister, I'm complaining about my books. This might seem trivial to you but I really love my books. I love the feel of turning pages in my hand. I love the power in the stories, word choice, and narrative style. I even love the smell of a used book (it's almost like vanilla, assuming the book wasn't placed next to a block of cheese, haha). But at home I have to pile my books high on top of my dresser, many covers blocking other and even more collecting dust. It's quite a large space considering the quantity of books, but it doesn't provide the books the display they deserve.
There are two solutions my mother reminds me of time again: (1) invest in an e-reader, and (2) sell some books. I'm sure (1) will happen eventually, considering my academic workload and the cost efficiency of a tablet. When it does, I'll be glad. But that doesn't replace the sentimental value of my books. Regarding (2), no. Sell them? No. Sure I maintain the crisp cover, unmarked spine, and unwritten pages that will bring in a few bucks. But an industry can place a value on the books, I can't. Where people are home, books feel like home because they reflect the narratives of the people in my life that matter to me. I have on the occasion given away books or donated them. This I can do. It means sharing the meaning of the author's words with another. It means spreading the power and knowledge behind each print. It means making a difference.
I am rarely seen leaving my home without a book in tow, and recently I carry around two: the one I am currently reading and my current favorite. A few months ago in April, I was walking a park. It was a fair day and I walked without aim, hearing the birds chirp, watching the clouds float, that kind of thing. Well, after a few minutes or hours (I wasn't keeping track and one can never be certain when you're absorbed in thought), I found a bench and had a seat. Short while later a woman walked past, sobbing. She was cleanly dressed, every hair in place, not a stain or wrinkle in sight. I want to say she dropped something of utmost importance and I retrieved it for her, a great bridge into a conversation. But she didn't drop anything. Half a block length later, she stopped walking, stood in the middle of the path, and continued weeping. I walked over to her and offered her a tissue. Considering that this is the middle of New York City and not everyone has good intentions, I understood her confused and slightly scared expression. To be honest, I was equally surprised in myself. But it got her to stop crying, right?
I told her my name and that I was a student. I wasn't following her, merely concerned about her state. Are you okay? She nods yes, making no move to step away nor relaxing her shoulders. I had something for her, I said. As if on automatic, I reached into my bag and pulled out Don Quixote. It is a wonderful story of adventure, imagination, and following what you believe to be true. I placed it in her palm. I said I hope it brings some joy and clarity. With a smile, I turned around. She didn't speak. She didn't stop me.
I returned the following week. Same time, same place. She wasn't there. After 3 hours, the rain broke through the clouds, telling me it was time to go home. It's been 9 months since. I've yet to return. I'd be lying if I said I'm not curious about her. I want to know if she read the book, if it helped in any way. But even if it didn't, I don't regret giving away the book. She needed to smile more than I.
I once read that charity is a privilege only the rich have. Whether you think that's true or not, remember that there's always something you can give, from a book to a smile. So here's to homes, books, and tears. Be grateful for the roof over your head and the food you eat and the clothes you wear. Times are getting harder for everyone, but I have a loving family, an optimistic outlook on life, and am still given the opportunity to pursue a degree. That's more than enough for me.
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