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• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• April 12, 2014

When I was in first grade, I begged my mom not to make me to go school everyday.  I just wanted to stay home with her.  She, of course, told me I had to go.  I didn’t really give her a hard time after I asked once or twice.  She would walk me to the school bus, and I remember feeling such dread (I would later discover this dread was social anxiety).  I would hug my mom, then go on the bus.  I always got a seat by the window, so I could wave goodbye to her, and see her one last time before I went.  I put my little hand on the windowpane, and my eyes filled with tears as the bus pulled away (thinking back, this was probably a lot harder for my mom than it was for me).

Then in class, multiple times a week, I would start crying and trembling at my desk.  The teacher would pull me to the side.  She asked me what was wrong, and I just sat there crying for my mom (I would later discover this is a panic attack, and they never ever stop happening or go away).  She would leave me alone till I calmed down, then I would join the class and I’d be fine.  I’m sure if I were a kid today with that behavior they would’ve diagnosed me with autism.  Almost 25 years old now, and living on my own, I can’t help but feel a similar way to my first grade self.

I officially left the Mothership, and now I have a small studio apartment to call my own, and I feel a bit nostalgic.  I lived almost 25 years in my Home.  It’s hard to imagine ever calling any other place Home.  My whole life revolves around it, this house full of memories.  That’s where I learned, where I was loved, where I wanted to go when I was sad, and where I was when I was happiest.

I have to thank my parents for a pretty spectacular childhood.  My mom was a stay-at-home mom, which, unfortunately, is almost no longer a thing.  My mom spent all her time playing with us, going to playgrounds, doing crafts, and playing games with us.  My dad worked, but was home before five everyday, and he’s the biggest kid I know.  We lived for the summers, spending most of our time at beach, and everyday, thanks to them, was a new adventure.

Don’t get me wrong, there were bad times.  Oh yes, there will always be bad times.  We are all guilty of romanticizing the past.  But I don’t really have a problem with that.  Home is where we ran to from the bus stop to play in the backyard.  Home is where we swam for hours, forgetting to re-apply sun block in our amazing ghetto above-ground pool.  Home is where we had awesome block parties, where the kids spent the day playing and the adults spent the day drinking, but eventually our day converged when the sunset and we all danced in the street to the DJ.

Home is where I stumbled in drunk as a teen, and threw up in the toilet; happy as could be that it was my toilet.  Home is where a tenant who occupied our downstairs apartment became part of our family, as she’s one of the most influential people in my life.  Home is where I was taught to ride a bike, skateboard, shoot a bb gun, kick a soccer ball… Home is where I got in trouble for eating with my hands instead of using utensils.  Home is where we opened Christmas gifts, and baked cookies.  Home is where we had the most intense, and competitive (and sometimes violent) Easter egg hunts.  Home is where we counted our candy loot from Halloween, dressed in our homemade costumes made from my creative mother.

Home is where we camped out in the backyard, told scary stories, and caught fire flies in the summer until we found out what glowed was their piss.  Home is where we’d sneak through the fences, and run through neighbor’s backyards, living our own super hero like adventures, and we the good guys.  And we were always certain we were the good guys.

Home is where we’d play “HORSE” that eventually turned into “WHORE,” because it was a lot funnier.  Home is where my dad would practice his karate moves on the deck fighting carpenter bees.  Home is where we’d have summer BBQ’s, backyard birthday parties, and drinks with good friends and family.

Home is where I’d lay in bed, and look out my window, falling asleep to the sight of the moon.  Home is ten minutes from the ocean.  Home is where my mom took care of me when I was sick, and often times, when I was not sick at all.

Home is where my sister and I played with Barbies, and my brother would play with us, as Barbie’s pet dinosaur.  Home is where I’ve laughed so hard, I peed a little.  Home is where I cried, from heartbreak and fear of the world outside of Home.

Home is where my family would sit, all together, watching sitcoms and laughing together.  Those are my favorite memories.  And I suppose this weighs heavily on the path I’ve chosen.  The adventure I’ve chosen.  Maybe one day, people can sit down with their loved ones, sharing a laugh watching something I wrote, eating a bowl of ice cream, not giving a damn about the world outside of their own Home.