home appreciation

I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that people don’t appreciate their home. I remember as a child looking at my parents and wanting to ask them why, why after having lived in San Fransisco, Austen and Ghent, why would you choose to settle down in Dayton, Ohio. When people ask where in the states I live, I always answer the same way. “Ohio,” I pause and watch them look questioningly “It’s one of the ones in the middle.”

(“Ohio?” the Scottish girl said on Saturday when I introduced myself, “I’m not sure where it is, but it sounds like a friendly state. It sounds like hello.”
“It is hello, in Japanese.” I replied).

I don’t think you ever appreciate home until you leave. You don’t realize until you start to travel that all over the world- everywhere- it’s so different from everything you’ve ever known. The way people interact. How much you will be touched. The way you get hit on. The food. The toilet bowls. Hygene expectations. The likelihood you will die while crossing the street. The words you use.

And then, when you travel more, you realize that everything everywhere is exactly the same. Everywhere there are rainy days, and there are people that complain about them, and there are people that go and dance in them, and there are people that want their lawns greener, and there are people who can’t afford yards. And there are times when the wind blows everywhere you go and that wind feels like it might blow right through you and you remember that you are alive. And there are times when you feel claustrophobic inside your own body and you just want to run- anywhere- to somehow escape yourself. to be free. but instead you sit, hoping nobody notices, that your body is too small and you can’t figure out how to leave it behind you.

You will be busy. You will be bored.

And you will realize that you run out of milk regardless of whether or not you can buy it in bulk. And you will be too lazy to go out and get some more regardless of if there are stores open late.

And the same petty fights happen among the same petty people,

Except that in Scotland she will say “I pulled him pure two months ago. I’m gutted he hasn’t called.”
And her friend will respond “I’m not trying to rip you so don’t start raging, but he was pure minging.”

And in the US she will say “I kissed him like two months ago. I’m upset he hasn’t called”
and her friend will reply “I’m not trying to make fun of you, so don’t get all pissy, but he was disgusting.”
[the first part is an excerpt of an actual conversation I heard two scott girls having]

And what brought this about was that three times in the past week someone has told me how cool it is that I’m from America and why on earth would I move to boring old Scotland?
The first was from my snowboarding instructor.
“Man. I really want to visit America. I definitely will someday. But I wouldn’t live there. What scares me is your ridiculously high punishments for crimes. Like you steal a car and go to jail for 20 years. Seems a bit disproportionate, and it’s not like it seems to have decreased the crime. That, and the guns.” Everyone seems to be afraid of the guns. “But why would you leave the United States and come to Scotland of all places? Man, I’m pure leaving as soon as I can.” And yet, he went admits, it could be worse. He could be English.

The second and third came while volunteering in Paisley with high schoolers.
“OH MY GOD. You’re from America?” she sits at my feet. “Tell me anything I just want to sit here and listen to your accent. Why would you leave and come to somewhere like Scotland? I mean, it’s Scotland. Scotland.”
Her friend over hears. She sits next to her.
“It’s like story time. Tell us everything.” But instead of waiting, she continues talking. “I really want to go to America. But I wouldn’t live there. All those guns.” I smile a little, because there really isn’t a way to refute this stereotype. “When I go to America, I want to go to Miami. And LA… Orange County.”

When statements like these are made, and they are made a lot, I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking “WHY? Good gracious. Why for all that is good and holy would you want to go to MIAMI?” I think movies and television have done their job of shaping the minds of youth. I mean… Miami? Gross. More like Portland, am I right?

But then I think about why everyone thinks it’s cool that I’m in Scotland, when everyone here seems to see it completely differently. I feel like to them it’s Michigan of Europe. Except where Michigan has snow, they have more rain. And maybe we were shaped by tv too. We love the mountains because we were told to by Braveheart. We love the rain because it’s romantic and we sort of like when men run around with the collars on their raincoats popped and scarves around their neck. We like the accents because someone at some point told us it’s cool… again, possibly Mel Gibson.

Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. I love the people. I love the rain (mostly). I love the constant supply of tea. I love the highlands and the way the sky is heavily textured. I love the way there is light and dark and green and music and wind. I love the parks and the old buildings and the tea houses and used book stores. I love how it is full of superlatives.

But I wonder if I can appreciate that because it is, if nothing else, not what I knew.
But I will tell you what I know.
I know I love home. I love Ohio more than I ever could have if I hadn’t left it.
I love the people. I love how each corner looks different. I love the history.
And no matter where I go, I will never stop missing the way October smells.

It will always feel like home to me.

Ohio is a friendly place. It feels like hello.