Advanced Essay #1: Driven Out

Memories come to me at random times, in random places. They play in my head like a flipbook; multiple images creating a familiar scene. Sometimes I want to go back to that scene, and sometimes I just want to leave them alone but my brain makes me think about them over and over despite how many times I wish I could forget. I am taken to some places more than others multiple times. One place I never seem to lose is the home I grew up in; a small apartment in Germantown, top floor, apartment A. There were two front doors: the outside door and the actual front door. Beyond the outside front door led a long stretch of stairs, speckled green and black like a cat’s eyes. They wound to our actual front door. It was a tall, red door; the poppy-colored cover of an old book of an apartment with walls the color of browning pages. A plump sofa and matching loveseat sat invitingly at either side of the living room with satin and knitted pillows. The floors were fuzzy and tan like oatmeal, I used to think. Below us was a small pharmacy where we spent quite a lot of time, when we would get a $1 or $5 if the tooth fairy was generous about front teeth or molars. Out back was a large tree my sister and I used to climb; it’s limbs large arms that bore delicate bunches of pink petals that fell in our hair and pockets.

I can recall a number of pleasant childhood memories in that place, but I can also remember vividly the times I just wanted to leave. I used to feel cramped, sick of the beige walls and the beige carpet and the narrow hallway that felt like a two-way street. I banged my head against the pages of that aging book and filled my pillow with tears silently because I hated being stranded on the top floor and watching the city pass below. Music blared, people shouted and sang at all hours of the night, sirens whirred and cars screamed, but I floated above it all, craving to escape the chaotic scene. I would always ask my parents “When are we going to leave?” but they would never reply. That angered me, but little did I know that they secretly dreamt of leaving too.

One day, my dad came home from work, the same way he always did, but today was different. Today, I sat on the couch with my mom and sister like we always did also, but outside, peculiar streams of auburn and ginger ribboned the evening sky. It was also strangely chilly for springtime and the quilt was pulled up to my neck. “Did you hear what happened?” my dad asked. My mom sat up. “No.” “They bought out Fred’s store,” he began. “Who?” “Some realtor company. They said he has thirty days to pack all his things and leave…and so do we.” My mom and sister gasped. I froze. Hearing those words gave me a nervous rush in my gut. Was this how God was punishing me? For all the times I was angry at him for putting me in this tiny apartment, and for all the times I thought my parents hated me for making me live here: was this how I was being repaid? I didn’t know how to react. For so long I wished to leave this place…but not like this. As we sat in silence, a harsh winter tumbled and raged beneath our roof. It was still cold went to bed that night and it gave me a deep shiver that shook every part of me. I couldn’t eat. I tossed all night. I worried for my parents because for the next few nights, I know they didn’t get any sleep either. The lights would be on for all hours of the night, and from the living room I could hear them shouting and talking, and then I realized: I was no longer above the scene that I longed to flee from, I was right in the middle of it. It had called me to it without calling my name. It knew me, followed me. I had dreamt about it before; what it was like to be in the midst of the frantic city. But here I was: staring it in its red eyes. My sister felt it too. We turned away from it, but it was everywhere we looked. We shut our door tight and covered our ears with pillows but it was always there…until one day, it wasn’t. The chaos inside and out had ceased for just a moment it seemed, maybe two. Either way it was quiet and the lights were off, and I was asleep. The next day we learned that my parents found a house.

Finally, they day had come where we could no longer stay in our apartment. Our chairs and tables and beds were gone, and our lives had been sealed into brown boxes that lined the hallway. I had never seen it that way before. I had never seen the living room without our bookshelf or the glass coffee table. I had never seen the room that my sister and I shared without colorful blinds or toys on our beds. In that moment, I wished I could have it all back: the keyboard in the hallway, the small radio in the kitchen. They were in some box or another, but they weren’t where they belonged. There I stood, in the middle of the silence and it was what I always wanted…but it was too silent. The chaos had been driven out from the street and from inside but I couldn’t recognize my surroundings. I couldn’t place the feeling I had because I never had it before and it startled me. It also saddened me. I was headed to a place I had never been, in a house I had never seen. When I could no longer take the desolate atmosphere of my now empty home, I turned to face my mom. “I think I’m ready to go now,” I concluded. We both headed toward the door, and she too took a final look. “Alright. Let’s go,” she said doing her best to conceal her sadness. With that, she shut the red cover of our ten-year novel.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to my old house. Sometimes I wish I could revisit the room I grew up in and run around the kitchen in footy pajamas because of the sound my feet made against the plastic tile or climb that giant tree with my sister the way we used to do every summer. Looking back on the day I left, it’s easy to recall the hurt and anger my parents and I endured. But with it having been almost eight years since leaving my childhood home I have acquired a bit of wisdom and can actually see it as a positive experience. When I got to my new house, the movers had brought in the couches, tables, lamps, and few other items from the apartment. It didn’t feel the same of course. The floors were wooden, the walls the color of fresh pages rather than weathered ones. To this day, the same couches from my old house remain in my current one, and it gives me a sense of comfort. Even as it took some time for my home to feel like home, I had something that I could recognize which made everything feel grounded. I think of this often, especially when I am trying something new or am not excited about change. This memory tells me that yes, change is a process and it’s always up to you. It can be the chaos of the city street or the quiet atmosphere of a small home. Either way, it’s inevitable and at times frustrating, but it gives you the chance to narrate your story on the fresh pages of a new book. Now, I guess it’s even safe to say, being driven out of our home was actually…a good thing.