S T A T E M E N T

“Hometown”: a word with 
a 
seemingly 
straightforward 
definition, bringing to mind 
elements of one’s childhood and 
the relationships that shaped it. 
In college — especially a college 
with a large student body, like 
the University of Michigan’s 
healthy diversity of in-state 
versus 
out-of-state 
students 
— the concept of a hometown 
adopts an entirely new meaning. 
This is precisely because every 
student’s perceptions of their 
hometown are distinct, molded 
by their unique experiences. 
This fascination (and maybe 
an added desire to visit a new 
place) drives many to embark on 
journeys to their college friends’ 
hometowns. These hometown 
visits are an opportunity to 
discover the roots of your closest 
friends, to see why they are 
who they are, or why they’ve 
come into college looking for 
change or expansion. It’s an 
intriguing part of relationship-
building, immersing yourself in 
the lifestyle of someone close 
to you, a concept that has even 
been codified among prominent 
pop culture franchises like “The 
Bachelor.”
But whether you’re hosting 
or visiting, hometown visits can 
be jarring, like puzzle pieces 
belonging to different sets that 
are pushed together in the 
hopes of fitting. It can seem as 
if individuals from your friends’ 
lives have suddenly been copied 
and pasted into your own.
The idea of taking college 
friends to a childhood home can 

present a cocktail of emotions: 
stress, excitement, fear or even 
embarrassment. There is an 
inherent 
privilege 
in 
being 
able to bring people home and 
enfold them within a piece of 
your past. For some, parents 
or relatives scattered across 
multiple homes or cities may 
complicate the idea of hosting 
school friends. For others, it 
can be anxiety-inducing to go 
back to a childhood home where 
they cannot express their true 
identity. If family or hometown 
community 
members 
don’t 
support expression of one’s 
gender or sexuality, returning 
to these places may drain 
individuals of energy or a sense 
of safety.
The word “hometown” may 
feel like a contradiction if the 
place where someone grew 
up wasn’t always welcoming 
enough to call “home.”
I am fortunate enough to feel 
comfortable returning home and 
to possess strong relationships 
with members of my immediate 
family, as are several of my 
college friends. Over the past 
year, I’ve been able to go on 
and host my own hometown 
visits with the people I’ve met 
in college. Whether I spent an 
evening or a week in these new 
environments, each has granted 
me a glimpse into the lives of 
those I’ve really only known 
for a couple years but feel as if 
I’ve known for much longer. 
The biggest thing I’ve learned 
from these mini-vacations is 
this: Hometown visits can leave 
very 
different 
impressions, 
depending on the character 
of people’s relationships with 
their communities of origin 
and especially with the people 

within these communities. 
College is a time characterized 
by 
change, 
where 
many 
develop into different versions 
of themselves. And past and 
present versions of self collide 
on hometown trips — so is this 
clash discordant or harmonious? 
Can it be both? What does this 
imply about your friends, your 
relationships with them? And 
is it really so bad if the mixing 
of 
worlds 
isn’t 
completely 
effortless?
Preparing for the visit
There really isn’t a surefire 
way to prepare for a hometown 
visit. Like any trip, logistics are 
always 
important 
(timeline, 
lodging, food, budget, activities), 
especially if you’re the one 
hosting. But there is no way to 
completely predict how you — 
or your college guests — will 
interact with the “other” group: 
your family and high school 
friends. The best thing to do is 
get an idea of the setting and the 
characters of the people you’ll 
run into during your stay.
I grew up in the suburbs of a 
Midwestern city, like many of my 
friends, so their descriptions of 
their hometowns were short and 
to the point. They shared their 
favorite restaurants, commercial 
areas, parks or attractions in 
nearby urban areas that we could 
explore as part of our visit. They 
coordinated with their parents 
about meals and activities. One 
of my friends even sent a daily 
itinerary and packing list, just to 
be clear on the plan. 
These preparatory details are 
fairly characteristic of all trips. 
But the most distinguishing 
detail of the hometown trip is 
preparing specifically for the 
people: how your friends act 

around them, what you might 
talk about and the attitudes of 
everyone you may meet.
Mental preparation on both 
the hosts’ and the guests’ behalf 
often coincides with logistical 
readiness. My friends have had 
varied reactions to bringing 
their University buddies back to 
their hometowns. While they all 
have strong relationships with 
their families, the prospect of 
actually making the trip back, to 
spending prolonged periods of 
time in a place they had largely 
grown out of, make some wary 
to return. 
One way to clarify a friend’s 
relationship 
with 
their 
hometown is to take note of the 
verbiage they use to describe 
it. In one conversation with 
my roommate, I struggled to 
find the words to describe my 
childhood home. He had said 
“your parents’ house” while I 
settled on “my home home.” 
Even though I’ve only lived 
there about two months thus far 
in 2022, I still mentally classify 
it as my personal headquarters. 
The degrees of separation from 
hometowns 
are 
extremely 
varied in college as the concept 
of 
independence 
takes 
on 
different forms.
On one of my overnight stays, 
I got into my host’s car, ready 
for the multiple-hour drive, 
and sensed that his emotions 
were 
somewhat 
unreadable, 
his mind occupied. Though 
he was very close with his 
extended family, he told me on 
the drive back to school that 
being with his family stressed 
him out. He was someone used 
to living independently and 
self-sufficiently, not needing to 
be directly in the vicinity of his 

childhood home. 
One of my other friends 
outlined how I and another 
college guest would be spending 
ample time with their entire 
family, a normal and enjoyable 
prospect for them — while 
I 
mentally 
energized 
my 
introverted self for a night of 
extensive 
socializing. 
On 
a 
different occasion, I watched 
a friend remove the nail polish 
from his fingers in preparation 
for a hometown visit, not wanting 
to deal with the comments 
his family might make if they 
saw it on him. Another, whose 
hometown I still have never 
been to, said many months ago 
that she would take us there for 
an hour and then would want to 
come back to Ann Arbor. 
The mental preparation for 
taking on a hometown visit, 
whether you are visiting or 
hosting, is extremely subjective. 
Absorb the information given to 
you, directly or indirectly, about 
the energy and relationships 
you might encounter. But the 
only way to truly experience a 
hometown visit is to dive right 
in.
During the visits: Some 
snippets
I shoved the chicken-infused 
filling 
into 
the 
dumpling 
wrapper, careful not to put too 
much — or even worse, too little 
— into the delicious pocket, lest 
it break when it was boiled. I 
carefully folded the dough into 
a half-moon shape, pinching 
the ends delicately so it would 
close without ripping. It was 
delicate work, and the people 
surrounding 
me, 
who 
had 
been cooking this delicacy for 
years, were watching closely. I 
wondered if they thought they 

would have to swoop in to save 
me. 
I was stressed. Though I kept 
up positive chatter, I felt like if 
I messed up, they might think 
me inept, incapable. This might 
seem like a ridiculous thought, 
especially knowing how nice 
my roommate’s parents were. 
Though I had met them more 
than a handful of times, I was 
genuinely uncertain about their 
judgment of my character based 
on this task, now that I was in 
their home. There is an inherent 
intimacy bred from entering 
someone’s house, that because I 
was an outsider, more scrutiny 
could be placed on me if I didn’t 
fit into their expectations.
I had an incredibly enjoyable 
night 
at 
my 
roommate’s 
childhood home and always love 
to return, but the idea that I had 
to prove myself kept asserting 
itself in my mind. As a fairly new 
entry into my roommate’s circle 
of friends, I felt as if I had to 
make up for lost time. I had to be 
the perfect guest.
***
After the four-hour drive, 
my tired mind was completely 
unprepared for the influx of 
people 
buzzing 
around 
my 
friend, Noah’s, home. Our other 
college friend, Anna, and I were 
immediately introduced to his 
parents, brothers, grandparents 
(who lived next door) and 
several family friends, the group 
growing larger as the night 
progressed. We all went to work 
preparing the build-your-own 
taco feast for dinner, an activity 
I was grateful for as it gave me 
something to do, some way to 
make myself useful.

At times, Ann Arbor grows 
restless: Students pass one another 
carelessly and in a hurry. Each 
bustles noisily, but none pause to 
listen. Sights and sounds of half 
a hundred comings and goings 
whittle me down to the bone. 
Feeling buried in the anarchic 
sounds of a tireless campus, I 
endeavor to make some time 
for myself; time to unwind and 
decompress in solitude and silence.
As far as solo endeavors go, 
Forest Hill Cemetery is the place to 
visit. Its tone is somber, of course, 
but also imbued with the joy of 
lives that have crossed the finish 
line; it’s joyous in a content way 
that only a burial ground can be. 
In addition to basic information, 
some choose to inscribe their 
headstones with verses and simple 
artwork. Poetry and other such 
non-name inscriptions come few 
and far between, but they come 
with the assurance of importance: 
A lifetime’s meaning etched into 
rock. Standing on the old cement 
walkway, I can still make out the 
sounds of traffic on Geddes Avenue, 
but they fade to a distant hum as I 
press on deeper into the trees.
The acreage of Forest Hill 
Cemetery is much smaller than 
that of the Nichols Arboretum, and 
the sounds of the city lie closer, 

but the crowds are fewer. I do pass 
other souls during my walk; one 
woman wears headphones. Quite 
a pity. She doesn’t know what she’s 
missing. She can’t hear the silence.
My ears acclimate to the forest 
after a time. The cemetery is its 
own sort of loud. Farther along 
the path, the most hidden sounds 
emerge: those of birds and squirrels 
or perhaps a frog. Undercurrents to 
it all are the sweep of the wind and 
a great clatter of dry, fallen leaves, 
near and far.
If Forest Hill Cemetery grants 
me the gift of the sound of silence, 
then a Mason Hall stairwell 10 
minutes to the hour grants me the 
exact opposite stimuli. It’s 12:50 
p.m. on a Tuesday. A myriad of 
students hold the doors eternally 
open, passing the responsibility 
hand to hand, furthering the 
camaraderie as each person hurries 
along their way. Scattered laughs 
and tired coughs reverberate up 
through the communal abyss, a 
cacophony of auditory updates on 
the human condition.
Soles of shoes scuffle and smack 
down on each step. The walls echo 
with indistinguishable chatter like 
an elementary school gymnasium 
during basketball practice. In the 
dry heat of half a dozen radiators, 
coats unzip, freshly arrived from 
the chill outside. The cold burns 
into warmth as heart rates climb 
with each stair.
As suddenly as it came, the flurry 

of energy fades, punctuated by the 
hastened pace of the stragglers. 
By 1 p.m., students have shuffled 
into classrooms. Again, silence. 
Deafening silence, artificial silence. 
The herds of horses have trampled 
away, leaving only a cloud of dust in 
their wake.
The emptiness brings relief but 
only somewhat. The quiet between 
these narrow walls was sorely 
won and evoked a sense almost of 
desolation, standing in contrast 
to the restlessness found in an 
expanse of open air.
***
Many people are in search 
of more silence in some aspects 
of their lives. The New Yorker 
magazine 
writer 
Jane 
Brox 
laments the replacement of silent 
time, first through the family radio, 
then through headphones and the 
ceaseless playing of music.
She explains the crucial role of 
quiet in her day, saying, “The quiet 
feels spacious — a place in which 
my thoughts can roam as I work.”
To Brox’s point, silence can have 
a marked positive effect on a work 
environment, particularly the sorts 
of environments in which students 
often find themselves: prolonged 
desk work that is sedentary and 
stress-laden.
Atalanta Beaumont writes for 
Psychology Today on the health 
benefits of simple silence, listing 
“low 
blood 
pressure,” 
“brain 
growth” and “relieved tension” 

among the proven advantages to 
working in silence rather than with 
noise like background music.
Though the mental and health 
benefits of simply working without 
a commotion are powerful, I argue 
that the spirit of silence, more so 
than just a literal absence of noise, 
would best be found in solitude, in 
places like the Forest Hill Cemetery. 
At this stage in fall, the trees blend 
together, standing so perfectly in 
patterns of yellow and red that they 
seem to have been arranged that 
way deliberately. Solitude affords 
a view — an empty landscape that’s 
all yours — and a gratitude to the 
space left untarnished by the touch 
of humankind.

And yet, an absence of company 
indoors, such as in a room or empty 
home, though a privilege, risks 
loneliness. Personally, I need space 
to roam in my quiet moments, to 
feel active and evade depression. 
I’ve often fallen into the trap 
of inviting physical or digital 
company every time I go for a walk 
or head out to lunch. Two birds, 
one stone — right? I often jump on 
the opportunity to check up on that 
old friend from Bursley Residence 
Hall, call my family, peruse 
discussion boards about that new 
Star Wars show as I enjoy down 
time in an overly-packed schedule.
But to me, it is so much more 
fulfilling to sit alone at night with 

a movie or a book than it is to 
lie alone, scrolling endlessly on 
social media or rewatching even a 
cherished sitcom. Perhaps a book, 
or even a movie, constitutes a more 
deliberate, lengthy undertaking, 
much like a walk in the cemetery.
Holly Burns, writing for the 
New York Times, explains the 
difference 
between 
deliberate 
solitude and loneliness well. Burns 
spoke with a lighthouse keeper 
who had spent much of the last 19 
years alone on an island. From her 
conversation, she concluded that 
“Solitude is much more enjoyable if 
you’re in control of it.”

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
8 — Wednesday, November 2, 2022

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

SARAH STOLAR
Statement Correspondent

Deconstructing the hometown visit

Pursuit of solitude on this bustling campus

JOHN JACKSON
Statement Columnist

Design by Priya Ganji

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

JEREMY WEINE/Daily

Students descend a staircase after leaving class in Mason Hall Monday, October 31. 

