It's Homecoming weekend. All the Alumni are here – the campus was a home, they've returned to their nest.
The word home stirs an empty ring inside my head.
"Home, home, home" I repeat to myself several times. Hopefully the word will stick to my lips. Maybe it'll stop tasting bland. Like Oatmeal. I don't feel anything in particular when I churn the word "home" with my mouth. There's no bittersweet memory that lingers – no spicy excitement to get me going.
And there he is. His name is Pershing. He's decorated with all types of accolades – degrees from respectable institutions. An educated man. First in his family.
But he must go "home". He must go back to his "roots". He has family to help. A community that awaits.
I left my family, my community, the memories of my youth behind when I came here. They sent me off with excitement – maybe the small town girl will do something big in the world. Go make a difference, they all said.
So I step into this world, clueless of where to go. Where am I? Am I heading the right direction?
Where is home?
And yet, when I smell corn – it is too familiar. I instantly see the fields of corn I passed by on my way to school.
When we sit down for dinner, I remember: my life used to be relaxed too. Everyone would be at the table around 6, with no particular obligation to work.
"Home, home, home" I say again to myself.
It feels a bit saltier. A bit spicier. Not as bland.
"Home, home, home"
Like honey and lavender.
And maybe a cup of milk too.
I was leaving my meeting with Dr. Foster. My hand was on the doorknob, when I suddenly felt compelled to turn around.
ReplyDelete“Do you ever miss being home?” I for one, never felt that way while on the road. Occasionally the thought of home twinged in my subconscious, but I never seriously entertained it, lest it taint the experience of the journey. Dr. Foster thought for a few seconds.
“Here, I am my own man. I am established and respected in this city for my merits. My home is just where I came from.” He paused. “But I do miss the food!” and we laughed. Even though my prescription had been made and my appointment was over, my question seemed to spark more thoughts in his mind. I soon found myself taking my hand off the doorknob and sitting back down to continue our conversation. Dr. Foster invited me to come down with him—homecoming weekend was coming up for Morehouse College, the second school he had attended.
That was how I found myself among a throng of African-American alumni. I had come onto campus with Pershing—as he was called here—but he was quickly swept away by a friendly bunch of classmates wanting to catchup. As I surveyed the crowd, looking for my host, my eyes stopped on a strange figure across the quad. A girl, with dark curly hair, a round nose, and large hazel eyes. She seemed to be watching something or somebody intently, so I followed her line of sight. There, on the steps up to a large building, was Pershing. I looked back for the girl, but she had already disappeared into the crowd. I wondered who or what had brought her here, and how far away from home she was. I looked back at Pershing. He was laughing with a group of other alumni. For all that he had said about California being his new home, he certainly looked comfortable here.