A House of My Very Own

We didn’t always live in Woodinville. Before that we lived in apartments. There was the one in Redmond. And before that Raleigh, and even earlier, the one in Cary. But the earliest of all was in Starkville – where I was born. I still remember the insides of each of the homes, the homes that housed me and my memories, my childhood. Each time I left one behind, I came to live in an apartment that was better than the one before.

            But now we have a house of our own, one even better than any of the others before it. The interiors aren’t cramped, they aren’t identical with the ones near it, and they aren’t dull. When I pull open the blinds, light flies in and attaches itself to the walls, making my house bright & livelier – like a baby after it first open’s its eyes. At first sight I don’t realize it, but this house might be just the one that I had always wanted.

            We left North Carolina for Washington, because my father finally got a real, stable job. We lived there for 5 years and before that we lived in Mississippi for another 5.

            I’d always imagined a house, with 2 sets of staircases on either side of the house, handy for a quick escape if a kidnapper tried to corner you in your own house. The house was a pale blue or yellow or something else light and flouncy, but more than anything I wanted the inside of the house to be painted in some sort of complicated color scheme. In my head, it was always carpeted with smooth light cream colored carpet, as if vanilla ice-cream smothered the floor, and the kitchen would be spread with synthetic light cedar wood flooring. The backyard would have to be open and free, spacious enough for picnics and as a haven for visiting animals.

            Instead this house is small, but cozy. It’s coated with a dark and distasteful brown on the outside, but on the inside it’s clean and crisp and white. The floors are real hardwood, which is where a large portion of its value is derived. It’s got a nice backyard, big enough to satisfy my mother’s gardening desires and more. Finally, I was granted my very own room. At 12, I decided to paint it bright coral pink.

            Occasionally, I get rides to get home after school. “Which house is yours?” They will ask. “That brown one right ahead”. I imagine them cringe at the icky brown hue clinging to the exterior of my home. But they will never know until they walk inside. This home of mine is actually lit up and happy on the inside. Especially on sunny days, my pink bedroom sends out bursts of pink, reflecting onto the adjacent wall; it’s a sight to see.

            The more I stay in this house, I realize that it’s a lot like me. I may not be extremely attractive or flamboyant on the outside, but on the inside I’m singing a million colors, bursting back rays of light, and burning warm high spirits. My house is a part of me, and I a part of it.

            We’ve moved every 5 years, but this is my 6^th in the State. Will we move again? I don’t think so, we are stable here, rooted in the foundations of this home, my home.

written May 25, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment as a spin-off of "A House of My Own"