A
bout 200 miles south of Ann
Arbor, off exit 50 on I-275,
and after a series of left
and right turns, sits an old
Tudor-style house. Safely positioned at
the end of a cul-de-sac, painted a soft
brown with maroon shutters, it now sits
empty, with only the remnants of what
used to be a bustling home of a family of
five — my family of five.
I
grew
up
in
a
suburb
of
Cincinnati, Ohio and experienced the
quintessential
suburban
childhood.
I attended a local public school,
played endless games of capture the
flag and wiffle ball in our tight-knit
neighborhood, spent early mornings
at Weller Park at soccer tournaments
with the local community team, went
to school dances, learned to drive and
for the most part, had a childhood
that was both normal and a privilege.
I was consistently supported by my
parents, Indian immigrants who had
no idea what a quintessential American
childhood entailed yet were somehow
able to provide it for my brothers and
me. Cincinnati is the place where my
family of five spent the most time
together, living under one roof, all
together, something I eventually took
for granted.
Halfway through my senior year,
after my older brothers graduated and
fled the nest to their respective colleges
and jobs, my parents decided to leave:
to leave the place we lived for 18 years.
To leave the creaky house at the end of
Ironwood Court, where memories were
embedded into every crevice of a house;
where I decided I was an undiscovered
artist and drew flowers in sharpie on
the wall of our yellow kitchen, the
gaping door handle sized hole in my
parents room created after I slammed
the door so hard after one argument
or another, the chewed out corners of
our family room coffee table which
our yellow lab Cooper designated as
his preferred toy, our tri-level maroon
deck where each of the Roy-Chaudhury
kids had their graduation parties and
my grandparents would sit and read for
hours on end.
They decided to leave the creaky
house, which for 17 years prevented
any sneaking out in the middle of the
night and always ensured that when
one person woke up in the morning,
everyone did. They left the dented
mailbox at the foot of the driveway,
which for more than 10 years doubled as
a soccer goal post.
They decided to leave a house that
saw parties of all shapes and sizes.
Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays and
the usual “Indian dinner party” were all
held in the creaky house on Ironwood
Court. They decided to leave a house
that saw moments of absolute and pure
happiness, infectious laughter and the
gatherings of friends and family, who
provided the needed insulation to our
life in Cincinnati. They left a house
that at the same time saw moments of
intense anger and sadness.
During the summer after my senior
year of high school, my parents moved
to Tucson, Arizona for my dad’s job.
For the majority of my last semester in
high school, I remember feeling almost
nothing. No sense of sadness or loss
in anticipation of my parents pending
embarkment west. I was too caught up
in the excitement of senior year and
my own upcoming move to Ann Arbor.
I naively believed their move would
have no influence on me, because I was
leaving too, and more, I assumed I was
ready to leave.
Come August, while my parents
went back and forth from Cincinnati
to Tucson, moving some of our stuff
and leaving others, the time finally
came to pack up my own room. I said
my goodbyes to friends, who like most
people in Cincinnati, were more family
than anything else. I spent the first 18
years of my life in one place, molded
and shaped by those who surrounded
me. My friends and family from
Cincinnati had front row seats to my
life; they were my biggest supporters
and my most important critics.
We packed our car to the brim,
with just enough room for me in the
backseat, surrounded by everything I
assumed I needed, not realizing just
how much I was leaving behind.
I think we all understand how
hard college can be, especially as a
freshman. It’s the feeling of jumping
off the high dive at the pool; exciting,
nerve-wracking and the sense that
you’ll never know if you keep your
body straight enough to avoid a
painful impact. My first months at
school began with that same nervous
excitement and unfolded into a skewed
and twisted jump off the high dive.
Once I got to school, all I wanted to
do was leave; to go back to the house on
Ironwood Court, to the blue and yellow
kitchen and the green couches. I wanted
to walk in through the squeaky garage
door and hear my brother watching TV,
smell my mom’s chicken curry and the
mumble of my dad on a conference call
upstairs. I wanted us all to be back in the
places we had been for almost 17 years.
I wanted things and people to be where
they were supposed to be, how they were.
The discomfort of being a freshman,
thrown into an environment where I
knew no one and relationships were
made quickly and then ended just as
fast, had me dreaming of Cincinnati.
Although
freshmen
typically
feel
this sense of homesickness, mine
was multiplied and rooted in a deep
resistance to change. Ann Arbor was
still unknown. Thoughtful and real
relationships in my new home had not
been formed yet, and Cincinnati was
no longer home base for my family.
Tucson, a small city nestled between
the Catalina Mountains, was foreign to
me, and for a while, every second spent
there was a reminder of how much my
life had changed.
In an attempt to feel some sort of
grounding and stability to endure the
awkward, lonely and also exciting
moments
of
college,
I
clung
to
Cincinnati. I held on so tightly to
something I felt was going to slip away.
Every break initiated a fight between
my parents on how many days would
be allocated where, every relationship
formed had me comparing it to the
lifelong friends I had in Cincinnati, and
the answer to “Where are you from?”
was met with a rehearsed answer,
when internally, I had no idea.
Yet, I soon realized I was holding
myself back. As my grip around
Cincinnati tightened, my ability to be
present in Ann Arbor was lacking, if
not nonexistent. Now, in the second
semester of my junior year, I look back
at that first semester and, like most of
us, see a completely different person.
The creaky house in Cincinnati wasn’t
a home because of all the physical
things — the countertops, the couches,
the dented mailbox — it was a home
because the four most important
people in my life lived there. The
friends who are now, and forever will
be, family were only minutes away. The
memories I so attributed to tangible
things existed because of the people
who created them. Holding on to
Cincinnati prevented me from making
those same memories in Ann Arbor
and creating the relationships I was
so lucky to have where I grew up and
now, am fortunate enough to have
again in college. The idea of home
was once singular for me. It was that
brown and maroon house at the end
of a cul-de-sac. The yellow and blue
kitchen, the sharpie adorned walls
and dented mailbox.
Now, I am lucky enough to have
three homes: Ann Arbor, Cincinnati
and Tucson. And, all three of these
places are virtually opposite in every
aspect except one; each is home to
people I love. And, in the end, isn’t that
what a home actually is? Not where the
laughs or fights took place, but who
they were with. Not the yellow walls or
the dining table, but the conversations
and memories that formed around and
within them.
As a junior, I realize that in a year
or so I’ll be going through the same
process, leaving a place which is
embedded with memories, tangible
landmarks of some of the most exciting
and hard times in my life thus far. Yet,
just as my home in Cincinnati was a
home because of my family and friends,
Ann Arbor is the same. After all, if I
have learned anything over the past
three years, it’s the people that matter
most, not the place.
Wednesday, January 10, 2018// The Statement
7B
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILY KOFFSKY
Anatomy of a home
BY ANU ROY-CHAUDHURY, EDITORIAL PAGE EDITOR