We’re moving again

I didn’t understand

One of my favorite things is when reading the work of another writer, I’m triggered to respond, comment, or pull my own thread on the subject. That happened yesterday. Author

Jimmy Doom

penned a short essay the other day called “Emptying the Box” and it moved me to write about my own childhood experiences of picking up and leaving.

Mostly I didn’t understand it. How could I at 3, 5, 8, and 12 years old understand why we were packing up our stuff, my toys, our beds, my two younger brothers, and our house to go somewhere full of unknowns?

San Diego to Abilene, TX back to San Diego. To Darien, CT to Clayton, MO. A total of 8 schools before settling into one high school.

What I do understand now are the reasons. My father was advancing his remarkable career. What is also within my understanding now are the many outcomes of all of this leaving, repeated newness, and starting over.

Each time I said goodbye to childhood friends that I thought I’d see again—that I’d be friends with forever. Children believe such things. Count on such things. Each time we left I said goodbye to places I thought would be my place of growing up. They were for awhile. Did the constant moving delay or accelerate my process of growing up? I don’t know the answer because I only knew the way I had to do it.

Each time we arrived I made new friends. That aspect of it was relatively easy. Sports was my entry ticket—my cover charge into the new club. I could play.

Being the new kid over and over again opened up possibilities. I could invent or reinvent. I could create a story about where I came from that was interesting—compelling even. Much more interesting than the reality. I became a storyteller long before I knew what that meant for my yearning soul.

In 1998 Public Enemy sampled a bit of Stephen Stills and Buffalo Springfield in their title soundtrack song to Spike Lee’s “He Got Game.”

Chuck D then rapped, “All this wanderin’ got my ass wonderin”

Where would I call home? In my adult life I’ve continued this cross-country ramble, choosing careers that bounced me back and forth across all 50 states and a million miles between.

I understand what a home is, although my pattern has been to honor the deeply set 7-year itch, buying and selling homes and changing zip codes up until just a couple of years ago. The knowledge that l can actually keep my stuff with me hasn’t lessened my ability to let stuff go. My old business partner Jason used to tease me about my itchy and claustrophobic nature. He compared me to Robert DeNiro’s character in Michael Mann’s 1995 movie “Heat” where bank robber DeNiro tells detective Al Pacino that if it were necessary, he could be gone around the corner in 15 minutes and never be seen again. Jason was right. One of my enduring fears is of being—or feeling like I’m getting ready to be—trapped by someone or by circumstances. I now know much of that was driven by my alcoholic desire to “make a geographical.” That’s another essay entirely.

One of the many manifestations of how I’ve changed. The home I have now, with the woman I choose to make it with, is intentional in every way. No one can tell me to move.