New conception of “home” leads to internal conflict

Paul Bowers, first-year print journalism student

Tagline: Pleading the First

10.22.07

On my third day in Columbia, I was out late with some friends, and I informed them that I was “going home.” They thought nothing of it, but I was troubled almost immediately after the words left my mouth. I didn’t even know my way around campus yet, and already I was calling my dorm my home.

The question that has nagged me ever since is, I believe, a fairly common one: What constitutes a person’s home? Is it where you feel safe? Is it where the people you love go to sleep at night? Or is it simply where you keep your stuff?

I have yet to reach a conclusion. My thinking becomes even more clouded when I tell people I’m “going home” for the weekend—meaning that I am about to travel to my parents’ house.

Seldom a week passes when something does not remind me of my conundrum. As I write this column, for instance, I am eating a sandwich off of a paper towel with the words “Home Sweet Home” printed in the center.

My parents may not fully believe me when I say it, but I miss them. We keep in touch via e-mail and telephone, but nothing can replace actual, face-to-face contact. As a child, home was where Mom and Dad lived, but, as with most other concepts, my definition has blurred with age.

I am normally not one to wax sentimental, but I think that the question of home is one that I will have to resolve at some point in the next four years. At times, I wonder if I can’t just have two homes. After all, I still have a bed that I can claim back at my parents’ house.

But I know that this duality will have to end. The question is, at what point does it stop being “home” and start being “my parents’ house?” Hopefully before it becomes “Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”

When I go back there for the weekend, there are certain times when I am certain that I am at home. When I catch up with my friends from high school, I am home. When I go to my old church, I am home. And when I hug my brother goodbye, I know that I am leaving home.

For every one of those moments, though, it seems there is an equivalent here in Columbia. When I stay up all night talking and playing guitar with my new friends, I know that I am home. When I worship with my new church family, I am also home. And when I hold my girlfriend in my arms, I anticipate a new home.

I do not know when the scale will tip, but I do not plan to rush it, either. One day, I will be able to comfortably call this place by the H word, and before I know it I will have to find a new one.