Subject matter for a blog comes relatively easy for me. Whether I decide to actually put finger to keyboard is another thing but inspiration is never too far away. I’ve been coming back to one subject I simply can’t shake; its become a monkey on my back and the reason for it is because, to be completely honest, I have not been able to completely figure out how I feel about it. No closure may come from it, no end, no ultimate truth to hang my hat on. Just an unraveling of ideas and memories and well, stuff.
Home. That’s it, home. The place, the idea, the philosophy even.
While living in El Monte, I reminisced fondly on the old blue house in Baldwin Park where I spent the first twelve years of my life. It’s true I’m not 100% a child of El Monte, more on that later. Many times my sisters and I have started sentences with, “Do you remember the time at the blue house when… blah blah blah,” reflection would set in and silence would cut the air with a deep realization that THAT home as we knew it, was gone forever.
For better or worse, El Monte was home for a long time. It still kind of is, as is the old blue house. My immediate family is like one oscillating cell spread across the L.A. and Riverside County landscape: from Westwood all the way to Riverside. So now, as you can probably guess, we reminisce over the glorious beast that is El Monte. I lived there as a kid with my mom & sisters and as an aspiring adult more recently. The more I think of it, the more I miss it.
So where is home today? I guess for me it’s in Highland Park. I love the pulse of the city, the buzzing of the 110 freeway outside my window, the quiet of my cul-de-sac. My cravings for Tito’s, Alberto’s and Taco Nazo have been replaced by La Estrella taco truck, My Taco, The York, among a wide array of the best Mexican food in L.A. That’s right, thee best in L.A. I’ve replaced my river bed bike rides with rides up to and around the Rose Bowl and to and from nearby watering holes. Beer runs to Clarks/Sav-On/CVS now head to Foremost Liquor, Galco’s Soda Pop Stop. Cumbias and soccer games blaring at full volume on Saturday mornings are no more. I actually miss that. 90% of my neighborhood knowing all my business is no longer a concern. I don’t miss that. Hour long commutes to and from work have been replaced by twenty-five minute drives that take me around Chavez Ravine everyday. I think there are five entrances into Dodger Stadium yet I know ten different ways of getting there. In sum, I love Highland Park as much as I miss El Monte but to be quiet honest neither of those cities truly are home and neither is the old blue house.
In a very round about way what I’m trying to say is that for me home isn’t a place, a city, a house, an apartment, a thing. When I travel I get hella homesick, HELLA fucking HOMESICK. Yes, I miss my place and I miss my routine but what I miss most is my family and friends. I’m certain many a writer has written about this and it’s way cliché to say the least but it’s cliché for a reason. Home is a memory of a playground love but it’s also woman impassioned to make this planet, this country, this city, Boyle Heights a better place. Home is Noah playing basketball. Home is a thirty-two year old grown ass man greeting his father with a kiss on the cheek. Home is knowing two other souls as well as you know yourself. Home is a mother who lives in a world of little people: Lucito, Claudita, Mayrita. Home is a Dodger game with Patch and Bear. Home is one too many beers at the 35er with Smy, a late night conversation with Mariana at the Little Cave, a grilled cheese at The York with Sofia. Apparently, home involves a lot of beer.
Home isn’t some abstract idea but it undoubtedly continues to change. I’m sure when I have kids, home will require an entirely new chapter with a couple of new characters added, like a George R.R. Martin novel. What’s home to you?
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