Star-Shaped Girl.

There’s a folder on my computer titled “blogs.” The majority of these Word documents have not been viewed by anyone other than myself. In fact, we’ll see if this specific “Document1” reaches the Internet.

There are some things that I believe are too personal to be typed out for all to see. Then again, some blogs don’t make the cut because I feel they might be viewed as repetitive. Such as the subject of “home.”

The “Wordle” to the right of these blog posts will show you that the word “home” is used often on the site. I’ve been homesick the last few days for a place that doesn’t exist. I love my parents, but their house is no longer my home. Dallas is not even home. The entire Southern region of the United States could be considered home but it has to encompass D.C. as well.

I told my room mate Jane today that the way to tell if I am homesick is if country music is pouring out of the cracks that surround my bedroom door. Today it was one song in particular, Miranda Lambert’s “The House That Built Me.” Well, there was no one house that built me. There is a combination of homes that interweave their way into my dreams until my older self is rambling the hallways of the house on the hill, the house without the front door, the house on Cedar. All the houses that my family has lived in are accompanied by a descriptor. You throw that one extra word in and my family members nod in understanding. No one else can understand.

Some people are made up largely of one home. I don’t understand these people, but a large part of me envies them. They have a bedroom in the house that their parents live in where they keep their childhood and teenage memories.

It’s not a house that I am homesick for or even a city. It’s an entire state, a certain type of people, the food that brings back memories and the weather. Ah, how I miss the weather. Rain, a good rainstorm would be perfect right now. Or the kind of night where you can walk outside without a jacket because the heat hangs in the air like a blanket encasing the stars.

Home can’t be wrapped up in one sentence. It’s the people I love. I don’t ache for a certain city limits or the confines of four walls but I still ache. Perhaps this widespread homesickness is the reason why I am on a constant search of a home for myself. I sleep on a rented bed and borrowed bedding. While I know home is not things, I surround myself with books; find them wedged in between the sheets, perched precariously on tables, hiding under the bed. Books remind me of who I am. The tortilla chips, salsa and country gravy sitting in my pantry remind me of who I am. The photos of friends and families hanging on my wall remind me of who I am.

Home is who you are. Home is remembering who you are and resting in that knowledge. Homesickness for me is the feeling of not quite fitting somewhere, a square peg in a round hole. Having a home is having the knowledge that there’s somewhere you belong. But when your bed is constantly changing and you don’t know where you’ll be sleeping in the next few months, your home becomes yourself.

Because though I miss Texas, I miss family, I miss the district, I miss friends, I know that when I go back to visit those places I find I don’t quite fit anymore. Perhaps my shape is constantly changing and soon I’ll be a star – unable to fit into any sort of manufactured spot. 

One day, I will have a home. 

comfort.

I took the tortillas out of my kitchen cabinets, pressed the plastic bag against my nose and took a deep breath.

I wasn’t attempting to suffocate myself in plastic and the smell of doughy goodness, instead, I was attempting to capture that memory of handmade tortillas with a Shirley Temple in front of me at our favorite restaurant in San Antonio. I was a little girl again, my feet kicking in the air as I ate my sopapillas, licking my honey-coated fingers, never dreaming that one day I’d live miles and miles away from home.

Someone should’ve told that girl: hold tight, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Yesterday was, well, how do I put this? Hard. It was a hard day. I’d go into the semantics but no one cares that much and it would require a confusing description of journalism grad school and all that entails. Let’s just say, I was kind of in charge and I had no idea what I was doing. My pride cannot handle that.

The beautiful thing about my graduate program is that we’ve all seen each other cry. If we haven’t, we’ve at least admitted that there have been private sobbing sessions in the bathroom stall before emerging with a forced look of confidence.

It wouldn’t be journalism if it wasn’t stressful.

Sobbing quietly behind my “Oxford American” magazine, I counted the subway stops until I was finally home. I didn’t want that home. I wanted my home. I wanted the south. I wanted a front porch, my parents, my sisters, comfort food and warm nights.

I had to settle for comfort food and new friends.

Two pots were removed from the cupboard and loaded down with chopped potatoes. I’ve become an expert at mashed potatoes. It’s a feeling, no recipe necessary. Add butter, milk, salt, pepper and garlic salt to taste. How long to boil the potatoes? You just know.

I’m a southern girl, through and through. Comfort food and sharing, that’s what we do.

I made a batch of mashed potatoes then shared with my two friends, Jordan and Alex. It’s rare to meet a friend you’re willing to show weakness in front of. My weakness is viewable to everyone. Luckily, I have friends to whom I can show this weakness without fear.

A viewing of “101 Dalmatians” and multiple servings of creamy, salty mashed potatoes later; I captured my second small piece of home with a phone call to my mom.

We all need our mommies sometime. But when mom isn’t available, a bag of brown potatoes can remind us of who we are.

The next stressful day will result in homemade fries. Then there will be okra, enchiladas, Cajun green beans, biscuits, breakfast tacos, steak…