Home: A Story in Three Acts

A few weeks ago, I was asked to perform a piece of writing in front of people. It was scary and exciting.  I expected a few people, maybe 10, in a coffee shop who may or may not be interested in hearing my story. Instead, there were 150 people crammed into a small bar in mid-town Tokyo listening intently as I shared my writing.

I was slotted the second to last spot on a Sunday night and as the night wore on I worried more and more that the people in the audience would grow tired and leave. Actually, I secretly hoped they would. They stayed. When it was my turn, I pretended to be confident and took the stage, sounds of Alice in Chains’ epic ballad “Don`t Follow” pounding in my head. Breathed in. Breathed out. And shared my story:

Home, A story in 3 Acts

Act 1: The Fuckin’ Yankees

Slam! The screen door shuttered on it’s hinges. Causing the whole house to shake. Shocked by the tremor, my attention swiftly shifted from the Charles in Charge reruns I was watching to 

to the screen door. 

“The fuckin’ Yankees won again!” Dad announced. He’d just been outside, cleansing his chi. His doctor told him that he needed to walk barefoot in the garden to reduce his hypertension. He does this. Every summer  evening. He carries with him, his one companion: A rusty old transistor radio. The one his father gave him after the war. Sounds of crackly a.m. radio baseball sneak out of Dad’s pocket as he enters the kitchen.

“I swear on my father’s grave, the Orioles’ ONE goal in life is to lose to the fuckin’ Yankees!”

“Hmmm” says my mother, calmly snapping peas at the kitchen sink. 40 years of marriage has taught her to react subtly when he is being irrational. Especially when it’s about sports. Especially, especially when those sports are the Baltimore Orioles.

“What happened this time?” She asked

“Derek Jeter, That`s what happened. They can’t seem to stop Derek “f-in” Jeter. ”

“Well, Maybe They will stop `em tomorrow.” I offered, one eye still on Charles. 

Next to me my younger brother, Kevin, was too busy playing with his new guitar to care about the scuffle in the kitchen. 

“One can dream,” Mom said turning her attention back to the peas.

This was our routine, my parents me. Dad would complain loudly about New York sporting teams and mom would hum show tunes to drown out the din. Kevin played guitar while I contemplated the latest episode of Growing Pains. That kitchen, with its mustard yellow walls and cherrywood cabinets is where we became a home and where I learned what it meant to be home. It is where I learned to love, negotiate, laugh, cry, and listen.

I grew up in sunny Colorado, riding bikes, climbing trees, building snowmen with my little brother, sprinting up mountains as fast as my legs could carry me. Its where I kissed the neighbor boy for the very first time and fell in love on my front lawn.

Summer days spent skipping stones into glassy mountain streams and evenings in dusty old theaters learning everything from Shakespeare to Rogers and Hammerstein. 

Its where I learned how NOT to be a successful college student, and how to lie to my parents about being kicked out. Colorado is where I learned the word integrity the hard way, and that failures are stepping stones to success and not life ruining events. It’s where I learned that home is where they have to take you in no matter what. Because like The Rocky mountains, silent and majestic, home is a place for new beginnings and fresh starts. 

Act 2: What`s that smell?

Sniff!

“Woah. What the hell is that?” I asked as I stepped off the plane into the dense heat soaked Bombay summer.

“Nothing mad`am. Burning trash only.” he said with a dismissive wiggle of his head. 

“Oh.” I replied. But I wasn’t convinced. I’d never smelled anything like it before. It smelled like steamy old rotten bananas mixed with the sour blood of a freshly slaughtered goat. 

Heinous.

India is like that; It’s an assault to the senses. We made our way through the busy airport and after only 2.5 hours of waiting for luggage we were finally set free into the steaming buzzing streets of Mumbai.

He turned, looked at me, and with arms wide open he breathed, “Welcome home mad`am.”

“Thank you, Suraj.” I canted.

It hit me then.

This is home?  Where the pollution-soaked-sun casts long shadows of overstuffed rickshaws busily buzzing people and sugarcane and cows?

Where Ravens the size of small children incessantly chatter and debate about who gets the last morsel of decapitated rat? 

And where limbless people writhe and spill onto dirty dusty roads fighting street dogs for discarded bits of chicken biryani?

“This can’t be home.” I thought. “I won`t survive here.”

And I almost didn`t.

One year and three months into India, I was diagnosed with Typhoid fever. Like American Civil War typhoid Mary contamination thousands of people typhoid fever. I’d managed to contract the disease even though I’d had the vaccination. My doctor, Dr. Ajit Sadi, “it’s like this Andrea. A vaccine is like a small umbrella in monsoon. You’ll still be getting wet, but you won’t get as wet.”

“Oh. Great.”

The hospital became my home that week. The nurses my sisters, the doctors my parents. It wasn’t so bad. There were catered meals and   wifi. But I was glad when it was time to unhook the iv be discharged back my real life into my real home. Unfortunately, three weeks later, I stumbled into the hospital again. This time it was encephalitis. The scary kind. The kind that kills people.

“Welcome home, Andrea! We cannot keep you away!”

I would’ve smiled, but it hurt to move.

“Come. We’ve two new nurses just learning how to insert IV’s. They are very excited to meet you.”

“Perfect! You know how much I enjoy needles. This should be fun.” I said, mustering as much sarcasm as I could through the encephalitic fog. 

“What a good attitude you’ve got Andrea. India has kept well,”

And he was right. Despite two deadly illnesses and countless rounds of antibiotics India was keeping me well, because it’s there that I  learned how to build a home. How to create my own family. I molded important relationships with the shoe guy and the ice guy and the knife walla, the coconut lady, and the fruit guy, and the little kid who sold gum and old Bollywood playing cards. I grew attached the giant fruit bat family that lived in a tree by my window and the fleet of stray dogs who stood guard every night.

India is where I learned to embrace heat, and noise, and how to celebrate multiple deities, seemingly every weekend singning, “Om Gan Gana pata ye Namo Namah…shri sidd tviyak namo namaha ashta vinaiyak namo nahama ganpatti bapa morya…” It is where I learned to steer myself around noisy firecrackers, and goats, cows, dogs, burning piles of garbage, people, people, shit,more people, chickens, crows, more shit, bats, palm trees, discarded bits of goat, elaborate wedding processions, and even the occasional elephant.

The heart pounding deafening drum beats that echo down the dusty cobblestone lanes became my pulse. India was my heart. It’s where I learned how to really, truly, love being surrounded by the best of humanity.

And worst of humanity.

Because India, that is where I learned the truth about corruption. And blatant bigotry. And racism. And rage.

So much rage.

My home was becoming hostile and turning me into a person I didn’t recognize. One who became irrationally upset with tiny-insignificant things. So irrational that when doors were slammed, they rattled the whole house. I knew that as much as I loved India, and as much as I wanted our relationship to work, we weren`t healthy together. So with a heavy heart I broke up with home sought younger, fresher pastures.

Act 3: Silent Sardines

“Do you hear that?” he whispered

“What? I don’t hear anything,” she replied. 

“That. There. Listen.” He said, tilting his head toward a distant sound. 

They let the silence sit between them for a while before she reached over to him.

“I miss India.” she said.

“I know you do. But this is home now. You’ll get used to it.”

“When?”

“When you wake up.”

“What?”

“When you wake up.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I mean, when you wake up from dream you are in, you will get used to Tokyo. You will adjust to the silence. You will learn to embrace the cold compartmentalized disinterested public and you will see that it is respect for your space and not you being snubbed.

You will learn to love clean air, blue skies and pouty pink blossoms in spring. You will learn to love balls of rice and seaweed and riding your bike on vacant streets in below freezing weather. The rocking hum of tightly packed tin trains carting silent sardines downstream will start to feel safe. Like a communal hug. Silent swarms of silverly salary men and new moms with tiny button babies that rock and sway in the ebb and flow of the foot traffic, will carry you with them if you let them.

Listen.

Home calls to you when you hear the train conductor whisper, “Kichijoji, Kichijoji desu.” When you wake up and realize that you made this move on purpose. That just because you shifted locations doesn’t mean you shifted homes. Open your eyes and look around and you will find that home has been here all along. It’s in the song of the mountains and the laughter of school children being called inside with the sweet tune of home. It’s the trees you climb in Nogawa park and the Indian wool blanket you wrap up in at night. It’s in the 4:30 am sun rise and the dense heat of Tokyo Augusts. Home is the crack of the baseball bat when the pitcher for the Swallows gives up another base hit. It’s what you carried here from Colorado, and India.

It’s here.

Home is what you bring with you, and home is what you learn.

So wake up!

Stop fighting, and see it.

It’s waiting for you.

And those tremors you feel, those are probably just the fucking yankees.”

I finished reading. Swallowed back tears. Bolted from the stage directly to the bar where a cold gin and tonic was waiting for me. I didn’t hear the applause or see the partial standing ovation. People had to tell me about that later. I am glad I did it. Felt good to share a part of me with strangers, to get good feedback. The writing isn’t as polished as I want it to be, but I guess that is the nature of writing. It is cyclical. I will come back around to this piece, and when I do, I will find home waiting for me.

This is me reading. Photo credit, Sam Hubble.
This is me reading. Photo credit, Sam Hubble.

If Phillip Lopate Broke Up With Me…

If I was dating Phillip Lopate and he wanted to break up with me, I hope he’d do it with this…

(Lopate’s original poem, We Who Are Your Closest Friends can be found here.)

We who are

your string of dates

feel the time

has come to tell you

that every Thursday

we have been meeting,

as a group,

to devise ways

to keep you

in perpetual uncertainty

frustration

discontent and

torture

by neither loving you

as much as you want

nor cutting you adrift.

Your true love is

in on it,

plus your boyfriend

and your ex-fiancé;

and we have pledged

to disappoint you

as long as you need us.

In announcing our

association

we realize we have

placed in your hands

a possible antidote

against uncertainty

indeed against ourselves.

But since our Thursday nights

have brought us

to a community

of purpose

rare in itself

with you as

the natural center,

we feel hopeful you

will continue to make unreasonable

demands for affection

if not as a consequence

of your disastrous personality

then for the good of the collective.

This is War

I am a peaceful person. I enjoy quiet mountain mornings, soft ocean breezes, classical music, the buzz of spring in the forest. A naturalist, preserver of God’s green Earth, lover of animals, etc. But recently I’ve been engaging in the violent purging of household pests. I’m not talking about mice or rats or even cockroaches. I’ve been forced to engage in a war on God’s least valuable living thing: the mosquito. To date, I’ve murdered an average of 4 mosies a day. Mostly in the morning. And most meet their death in the violant clasping of hands against a unforgiving surface. Sometimes I watch them wriggle their last wriggle and wonder who will miss them. Then I slap another one and wash my hands.

Living in India, land of non-violence, I am constantly forced to reflect on these violent outbursts. But seriously, I’d rather live with the fact that I am a murderer than be hospitalized with Dengue or Malaria.

Yesterday, arriving home from a beautiful weekend at the Taj Palace Hotel in South Bombay on a steamy pre-monsoon afternoon, I was met with yet another urban pest. A creature, without whom, forests would become overgrown but with whom, urban apartment buildings crumble to the ground. I am speaking of course of the dreaded termite.

It took a few hours of research for me to identify these little guys shedding their wings all over my windowsill, but after consulting Orkin.com, I’ve concluded that they are subterranean termites; the most destructive of the species. Again, I don’t consider myself a violent person but the fact that colonies of these aggressive beasts are living in silence in my home is quite a threatening thought. Not to mention gross. And creepy.

After reading about these extraordinary creatures and their complex system of tunnels, unusual digestive methods, and monarchic society I suffered a moment of sympathy for them: the impending genocide, the mass murder of a sophisticated society, the ruins of a once powerful civilization reduced to dust.

Silently reflecting on my decision to wipe them out with poison I felt a tinge of guilt. Then one flew into my tea. The guilt melted quickly into rage. Say your prayers termites. Tomorrow is Armageddon.

Fumigation