Stories of Home

          “M-I-C-H-I-G-A-N, Michigan Go Blue!” The Michigan Men’s Glee Club rings through the house as I rub sleep from my eyes. It’s a Saturday morning and though I do not watch sports nor do I care about college football, I lumber downstairs in maize and blue anyway, roped into cheering for my parents’ alma mater. Somehow, this silly song from a university I did not attend will play inside my ears whenever I spell out the state of my home.

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          The concept of “home” is a tough one…one of those words that isn’t explained or defined until it has to be. Until its inhabitants are out and existing in the big, wide, wild world and must suddenly differentiate between where they are now and where they come from.

          No matter where I end up or where I spend the interim, I think I’ll always refer to Michigan as my home; my place, my space, my heart.

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          I was born in Detroit and raised in Whitehall, a town only notable to the wealthy socialites of the neighboring Illinois and Indiana in the summer months. The gorgeous weather and copious bodies of water providing the perfect excuse to up and leave the complexity of concrete and cookie cutter compounds for even a few months of peace and respite. I remember once, when my mom and I were walking up the decrepit wooden stairs of the White Lake Yacht Club (our “community pool”), we saw an elderly couple at the top, the woman posing for a photograph by the sign stating the Club’s construction in 1903. I smiled to myself, smug with pride, as I squeaked about how cute it was that these tourists were taking a picture with a sign I had never read and walked past one hundred percent of the days I descended the stairs.

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          I grew up in the middle of nowhere—though there is an identifiable post address, our home is tucked into a little pocket of forest, nestled in the valley of overgrown dunes. A five-minute walk to our beach on Lake Michigan, I never appreciated the solitude, the serenity, the quiet until I moved away. Now that I’m myself a tourist, I bask in the cool breeze off the lake, the songs of the birds in the trees, the irreplaceable noises and sounds of life as it is—untouched by human hands—surrounding me every time I visit my parents.

          One of my most favorite things about Whitehall is the drive home from just about anywhere. On this drive, there comes a point where the driver must make a decision to go one of two ways, one made the trip a few seconds faster and the other, my family and I scholastically deemed, “The Lake Way.”

          This chosen arc was always a favorite of mine; no matter the time of day, no matter the climatic circumstances, no matter the mood of the car’s inhabitants, The Lake Way absolutely epitomized the truth in those old Pure Michigan commercials. Sometimes, as I got older, the beauty of it would steal my breath away; absolutely blown away by my pure privilege to experience nature and its magnificence from the comfort of my car. Sometimes, it was easy to succumb to the powers of my iPhone and I wouldn’t even notice we’d passed the lake.

          On a sunny day, the light sparkles off the water in such a way that it looks like an ocean of tiny diamonds dancing and leaping across an aluminum plane. On windy days, the water rises and crests in rolling, frothing white bubbles lapping at the shore. On winter days, if it gets cold enough, the first few hundred feet of Lake Michigan freezes over, creating a shelf of ice from the monumental waves beyond.

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          My adult life took me far away from my family and the Midwest, to Orlando; different in just about every way. Even surrounded by palm trees and perpetually warm and sunny days, It’s easy to feel disconnected in my world where theme parks thrive and water is at least a 45-minute drive to either coast. Though its beauty is more nuanced, it is home for now. This summer, while on hiatus from real life and my job and everything else I had always considered Normal Adult Living, I returned “home” for a month or so—the longest I had stayed in that house with those people since I was eighteen. While many shudder at this proposition, I felt like I had entered a bubble of suspended time. I did puzzles with my mom, laughed with my brother, hugged my dad. I didn’t worry about work, bills, or what I would do that day. I just… was.

          A few times, I went on a walk to the beach, alone. Since the last time I visited, our neighbor had built a deck overlooking the water. It is big and flat and sheltered from the wind due to the vastness of the forest/dunes to the sides and behind. To say the view from this spot is breathtaking greatly diminishes its beauty and splendor. A few times, I did yoga on this deck and as I gazed out at Lake Michigan over my left hand (“into my future”), my body strong in Warrior Two, I was humbled and calmed by the vastness of blue and the soft crashing of waves on the shore. I remember telling myself to live in this moment and soak all of it in so wherever I am, I can close my eyes and remember.

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          After it had been collectively decided that I should fly back to my home, I found myself in the Grand Rapids airport hugging my parents a tearful goodbye before entering the one-person line to TSA. On the second round of hugs, all of us crying, my mom whispered into my hair, “You can always come back. We’re just a plane ride away.” 

Written for Master of Arts in Professional Creative Nonfiction Writing at the University of Denver; January ’21