I feel like I’m attracting attention. Fellow air-travelers glance at me curiously, perhaps thinking that an airport is no place for leisure. But, hell, we’re only going to baggage claim, and I’m in no rush to join the horde by the numbered conveyor belts. It makes more sense to take my time and wait for the crowd to thin out a bit, so I have easier access to grab my black suitcase out of the sea of black suitcases. (People tie colored ribbons to their suitcase handles, to make their bags easy to identify. I lack the foresight to do that, and instead recognize my black suitcase as the one covered in long, white cat hairs.)

I lean against the wall and read while waiting for my bag to surface. The arrivals swirl around me, subtly pushing their way to the side of the conveyor belt, desperate to get to the front but trying not to seem rude. They all look vaguely familiar to me and similar to each other. I remember that New England is the land that diversity forgot. This is no one’s fault, but it is a little eerie to return to. I remember what my friend from Georgia said about her first impression of Boston: “Where did they put all the black people?”

Is it terrible that, when I’m visiting my family, the notion of running into someone I knew in high school absolutely terrifies me? The people who I was close to, I would love to see again. But as for the folks who played the “extras” in my private version of “Freaks and Geeks,” while most of them are nice people, I would probably duck into the shadows if I saw them on the street. I’m almost positive that’s what I’d do. I’ve done it before.

I don’t know, there’s something sad and tiring about doling pleasantries to people who shared your childhood. I’m no good at small-talk to begin with, but with former class-mates, there’s an unspoken pressure to be amazed by the small-world happenstance of running into so-and-so “after all these years!” And how we’ve both changed! And what are you up to, now? And how’s your mother? And it’s okay that we never had anything in common and you thought I was weird and I thought you were boring, because my how we’ve grown! There must be something we can talk about … um …

It’s all very nice, truly, I’m just no good at it. In the airport, thinking about running into the less familiar parts of my childhood, I feel a bit like there’s a wave cresting dangerously over my head. (I tend to over-react when I feel the slightest bit caged.)

I keep looking over my shoulder, thinking someone is calling my name, but I’m just imagining things. Then again, there is a strong possibility that my name is being called to someone else. My but the world does teem with Kellys, doesn’t it? Fuck.

My dad picks me up in the front of the airport. He parks in a clearly marked no-parking zone, gets out of his truck, and attacks me with hugs. He looks like he’s going to burst. There’s a cop nearby, who barks at us: “HEY! This is a NO-HUGGING ZONE!” My dad laughs and says he’ll risk getting fined. He loads my stuff into the bed of the truck, and we head back to the house.

Lordy, but I don’t remember the drive from Providence to my hometown being as long as it is, or the highway being this dark and winding. We pass one familiar landmark after another; there are some changes I notice, such as one department store being traded for another, and highway construction having moved slightly north or west of where it was during my visit last year, but the basic structures are exactly the same.

At my parents’ house, it’s similar: mugs we once used for cocoa with fluff are now used for pre-commute coffee, but they're the very same mugs. The sofa and my bed are the same, my parents’ goodnight rituals are the same, as is my habit of staying up long after everyone else is asleep. But changes have arrived in the form of satellite television, new sugar bowls (replacing the one I broke last year), new wrinkles, and increased patience in all of us.

There’s a strange “prodigal daughter” quality to my visits. My parents look forward to them for weeks. I do, too. I love my family, and I like being "home". When I’m here, my dad, especially, takes every opportunity to tell me how nice it is to see me. He also frequently apologizes for there not being much for me to do, and for how bored I must be and how ready I’ll be to get on the return flight to Chicago in a few days.

And, you know, to an extent that might be true, but it’s not really fair to either of us for him to bring it up constantly. It makes me sad. It’s like he sees changes that I don’t, and they weigh on him. It's like my visit means something different to each of us.

I went shopping in downtown Boston yesterday, and last night, at dinner, my dad asked me if being back in Boston felt “weird.”

Nope, not at all. I know my old haunts so well, I still visit them in my dreams. London, Vermont, Massachusetts, Chicago … these are locations I have a relationship with. I’ve observed their internal changes while their main structures have stayed the same. I’m still quite present in each of them. Honestly, I don’t think it would surprise me on any given morning to wake up in a different place I used to call home. I’d just pick up as much of my normal rituals as the present personality of the place would allow, take into account how I and the place had changed in our time apart, and adapt accordingly.

There’s a convenience store in Boston’s Back Bay station, where, three years ago, I used to buy my daily Diet Coke before boarding the outbound commuter rail. Every day, the same young man would ring up my purchase. This time last year, during my annual Boston visit, I stopped in for my usual purchase, and saw that same young man. He smiled and asked me where I’d been, I told him I’d moved to Chicago, and was just visiting for the holidays. He said it was nice to see me, sold me my Diet Coke, and I boarded the train.

This year, same thing happened. He asked me where I’d been, I told him I’d moved to Chicago, and he slapped his forehead and said, “Oh, yeah! You told me that, last time.”

I smiled and paid for my Diet Coke.

He said, “It’s nice to see you again.”

“It’s nice to see you, too.”

“You look different.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Well, okay, then. Maybe he’d know better than I would.

I am fostering a dual-marriage with both upheaval and nostalgia. See, I have trouble letting go of my past, not in a way that stunts my growth, but in a way that makes my memories stay vivid and present. At the same time, I grasp eagerly at passing chances for private revolution, like a hobo running after freight trains.

I’ve learned that there’s a certain type of sameness that can be found in any given situation, and it’s okay to embrace it. Some sameness can be crippling, however, and should be rejected. It is a very delicate difference between the good and the bad kinds, and I think you only learn to distinguish between the two after trial and error. That’s the part that sucks. But if you pay attention, things turn out okay.

Other things of note:

1. I had lunch with Shelley yesterday, who is just as warm and funny and lovely and easy to talk to as you’d imagine. She is a beautiful lady, with graceful and delicate hands. I couldn’t help but notice.

2. I’m reading this these days, courtesy of the inimitable Mr. Carrico, and you should read it it, too. Yes, YOU. A very good read, and really fun for me, not only because I lived in Camden Town and am sort of in love with London. (Sorry, Dean. I probably could’ve plugged it better. I really am enjoying it immensely.)

3. Yesterday, on Newbury Street, I passed a dude in a Santa suit who was handing out cell phone fliers in the snow. Goddamn, but it was cold out yesterday, so on my way out of a certain bookshop/café, I picked up a hot chocolate for the guy. He looked really confused when I handed it to him, and, while he thanked me, I noticed that it would be impossible for him to imbibe anything without first removing his stupid beard. So, whatever, it’s the thought that counts, but there you have a perfect example of someone’s altruism being more self-serving than beneficial. That realization made me laugh, thus making the whole act of me buying Santa a cocoa even more self-serving.

I think too much.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

---

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

---

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

---

««« Chicago Blogs Webring »»»

---

email:

---

words © luvabeans, 2003 - 2004