Home-ish

there's a growing leak in the bathroom I think it's a metaphor

I have a love-hate relationship with my teen apartment. "Apartment" because, in NYC, that’s all we could afford—well, can afford. I’m away for periods of time, so whenever I return, something new catches my eye. There’s a new bed frame. My mama now rests in my old bedroom. We used to joke that it was a storage room because suitcases and miscellaneous things were packed up high to the ceiling. Oh, and there are no windows either. I was a hermit in there, rotting, crying, laughing, contemplating, and plotting my next move.

During college, it was my safe haven, away from the pressures of good grades, social interactions I couldn’t seem to interpret, and messed-up sleep schedules. I’d come back on weekends or during breaks and sleep—a deep slumber I couldn’t shake because it was easy to let my guard down. I didn’t have to post to a discussion board, study for a chemistry exam I was bound to fail, or give my interpretation of DuBois’ double consciousness when I already live it. Education felt like a burden at times. I spent my days masking, mirroring, holding it together so I could brave the world, proving I, too, deserve a chance. That I, too, am capable of achieving my dreams, even when armed with rusted tools.

My teen bedroom is an oasis of clutter. The past enveloped in every corner.

The suitcases we used to pack our belongings when we moved to a new country, hoping for a better life—hoping, praying, then hoping again. No plan, just a sense of trust in the universe, in Allah.

My backpack, with just a couple of my writings I couldn’t bear to part with from high school, sits in my closet. I would re-read the comments my English teachers left, the red ink seeping validation into my essays.

My high school yearbook is in there too, filled with parting words of advice. A notable “publish!” my senior year English teacher scribbled in his leaning scrawl, urging me to push through my fear.

My red puffer coat, which I wore day after day during the cold winter months hangs in the closet as well, alongside my graduation gown, African and Eid garb.

My prayer mat lays neatly folded near the lamp. It used to collect dust, now my mama is it’s loyal servant.

My room is evidence that my trauma has shifted. I no longer hope for things to fall into place—now I will for the energy to chase after my dreams. I don’t visit as much as I should, but then I remember exactly how this apartment made me feel—how small I felt, curled up in fetal position, scrolling through social media keenly aware of what everyone else had, and how the suitcases stacked high to the ceiling could easily crush me. I’d welcome it. It was also the room where I spent hours on the phone talking to my friends, my distant cousins, siblings and my past lover. It was where I received the best news of my life at the time—a full ride to my dream school. It was where my niece would spend the night, where I played dress-up, prepped for interviews, listened to music, and danced as if I were on stage.

I love my teen apartment because it’s a reminder I’ve lived beyond its walls. What I come to realize I hated was the poverty. It was always the poverty, not the apartment nor the room or even myself.

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1.2.24

9:23am