In The Wake of Home — a.k.a. Safe Words

Joel Meyerowitz, Hartwig House, Truro 1976

1. You sleep in a room with blue-green curtains

posters a pile of animals on the bed

A woman and a man who love you

and each other slip the door ajar

you are almost asleep they crouch in turn

to stroke your hair you never wake

This happens every night for years.

This never happened.

— Adrienne Rich, excerpt from "In The Wake of Home" in Your Native Land, Your Life

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I've often pondered, as I walk our neighborhood streets with curiosity during the throes of this pandemic, trying not to peer into windows and wondering if anyone else is feeling as marooned as I do – how many people feel truly comfortable in their homes. If so, why? And if not, why not? How much does the abode itself, for one thing, actually matter? While our own house feels quite modest to me, we live between San Francisco and Silicon Valley in one of this country's most frighteningly expensive zip codes, a fact I hear evidenced by the thwack of balls on a private tennis court and the laughter of children splashing in a large swimming pool beyond high iron gates as I walk by. That sense of place has taken on a whole new import now, with "quarantining" and "Shelter In Place" suddenly familiar terms. Across the globe, we've all spent countless days inside our houses, our apartments, our cottages, our mansions, our trailers, our shacks, our cabins – and we're the lucky ones, as wildfires or job losses or an inability to pay the rent has rendered many of us without a home at all.

It feels arbitrary to some degree, this relative privilege of place. I'm reminded of the childhood game M.A.S.H, which I taught my kids to play this past summer during a long drive through the mountains of Idaho. You draw a large square on a piece of paper, write M.A.S.H. above the top line, and then you go around the perimeter,

listing 4 love interests along the line on the right side, 4 professions on the bottom, and 4 cities or regions along the left side. Then your friend or sibling draws a spiral in the middle of the square while you close your eyes until you eventually yell "Stop!" and they count the number of full circles in the spiral. That's your lucky – or not so lucky – number, as it were. Your friend counts around the square, crossing off whichever options they land on once they reach your number and starting the count again until one choice in each category is left. Variations abound: you can add pets, or number of children, or types of cars. And when the last option in each category is circled, that's your future, revealed to you as you groan or grin at what the fates have destined for you. We always insisted that there had to be one awful option in each category, like Danny-the-boy-at school-who-smells-like-chicken as one of the choices for your future husband, or James's favorite, "Roadkill-Picker-Upper" as a future job choice, or Siberia for where you would potentially have to live. M.A.S.H. along the top was a fixed option set – you'd either be living in a Mansion, an Apartment, a Shack, or a House. I was always disappointed when I didn't get the Mansion.

My secret addiction involves an App to which I have lost countless hours of my life. My iPhone is in on the scam. I don't love checking social media, I'm not constantly refreshing Instagram or Facebook in the masochistic way of many. My particular internet fixation is real estate porn. It is often the only reason I pick up my phone throughout the day, a constant go-to escape when I am tired or bored or in need of distraction and can't bear to check the news once again. I obsessively check Trulia For-Sale listings to see what homes are on the market. Affordable or not, pragmatic or not, I search and scroll through endless photos of bedrooms and kitchens and gardens and bathrooms in whatever area I can find any reason to maybe one day want a house. I like our house now, which we saved and scrimped to afford in the bonny climes of California, but I yearn for a haven. I don't know quite what would make it so, but I seek it anyway. I don't think it is a healthy habit.

***

Every night at home I tuck my children in, spending too long at their bedsides. I often snuggle up next each to one of them as they settle in under their covers, much to Charlie's chagrin. We talk and laugh and decompress from the day. I cherish these moments: snatches of their childhoods that I gobble up as offered, before they grow out of my company and smuggled affection. I linger. They love it, at least for now. Charlie will come to Grace's doorway with a stern look on his face, seemingly oblivious to the obvious fact that she and I are having a Very Important Conversation about friends or boys or school or skincare or What The Hell Ever, At Least She is Opening Up To Me! I gesture furiously to make him go away as Grace and I keep giggling.

These snatches of intimacy are something I remember vividly from my mother's house when I was young. At bedtime, I had her full, focused attention. I could ask whatever I wanted and the universe of adult response seemed expansive and fascinating. I can still call to mind our reassuring conversations about how to tell angels apart without name tags, why actors during love scenes don't just do it, about why she left my father and could Divorce ever happen to me? Mom was a constantly loving presence, but these nighttime moments with her, tucked into my threadbare peach comforter with my fraying, faded baby blanket next to my head, were a welcome balm. During the years when we schlepped back and forth every few days between our parents' houses, when we navigated 2x each holiday and the complicated emotions that accompanied them, when we lugged around sagging book bags filled to the brim to ensure a textbook didn't get left at the wrong parent's house, when we fretted at drop off that the departing parent might feel bereft as we kissed them goodbye on the front steps of the other's house (I searched for tears every time) – these bedtime moments with her were one thing I knew to be Home.

***

Two years ago, before travel was quite so pandemically taboo, I boarded a plane in San Francisco to surprise my sister for her 45th birthday in Sun Valley, Idaho where she lives full-time. I was bullish. Surprising Carrie is a favorite pastime of mine. Wigs are usually involved, and some subterfuge where I willingly look the fool and she can maintain her beautiful, slightly regal but amused countenance as she laughs me off but genuinely appreciates the effort and the humor it evokes. It is one of those times when my overly effusive warmth balances well with her cool reserve. The resulting equation is Goldilocks right.

Close friends were throwing her a surprise party. It took a lot to pull off, and initially I didn't think I could make it: we had just bought a house and were moving, Charlie was starting an intense new job and had come down with a stress-induced case of shingles, and I had just inherited a feisty new team at work that wasn't yet sure about my leadership chops, and frankly, our nanny sucked. The only flight I could book around my work schedule got me into Boise around 11pm on the Friday night before the party the following evening. Rather than driving the 3 hours to Sun Valley that late at night in a tiny rental car, I arranged stay the night with my old friend Abby, who had moved to Boise a few years prior. I'd sleep at her house and make the long drive after breakfast together the next morning. Solid plan, and my sister was none the wiser as I called her before boarding the plane, muffling the phone so that she couldn't hear the dead-giveaway mechanical voice of the airport intercom lady. I told Carrie that I was so upset not to headed out there for her birthday.

My friend Abby gave me her address and I plugged it into my phone. I told her not to wait up. She said she'd leave the front door open and told me how to find the guest bedroom. As soon as the plane landed, I grabbed my black carry-on luggage from the overhead bin and walked off into the Boise airport. It was late at night. None of the stores or restaurants were open as I marched past them to the Hertz customer service counter and picked up my cheap rental car.

Settling into the driver's seat, I punched Abby's address into my phone and headed out into the night. Her house was about 20 minutes from the airport. I turned on some music and focused on the road, thinking of material for my toast to Carrie the next evening. I knew I could belt out a cheesy song parody if I had the time to think of decent lyrics, and I played some Taylor Swift to see if anything inspired me. The route to Abby's house took me up a long, winding hill along the outskirts of Boise. As I approached her house, I could see the twinkling lights of the city and the large, nearly full moon reflected in my rearview mirror. Siri announced robotically "Your destination is on the right," and I maneuvered my car into a wide paver stone driveway with a hulking SUV and a small Mercedes parked in front of the two stately garage bays. The house was attractive and enormous, two stories of white-washed Mediterranean style adobe and a tiled roof. I pulled in next to the Mercedes, turned off my car, and gathered my things.

As I pulled my wheeled carry-on along the paver stones, I heard the sound of the TV coming from an open window above the garage. It was nearly midnight. I felt bad that Abby had waited up for me after all, wondering if she had heard me pull up or if she had fallen asleep in front of the television as I often do when anticipating late night guests. I opened the front door quietly, lifting my bag over the threshold so it wouldn't make a noise. Abby had left the entryway light on for me, and I could see the large living room splayed out before me in the tasteful colors I always associated with Abby. Off-white, camel tan, large rugs next to horsehair sofas, beautiful bowls on glass tables with coffee table books worthy of their placement, and designer-chosen knick-knacks that adorned the built-in shelves lining the room. It smelled like Abby, a clean, fresh scent with hints of jasmine or clementine or whatever candle was in season. I smiled to myself at how stylish Abby was, how perfectly sophisticated and en vogue. If there was one friend whose closet I always coveted, it was Abby's.

That had been true since I was a toddler. Abby's parents were close college friends of my Mom and Dad – Phil was my father's roommate at Princeton and Gail a close friend of my mother's at the sister college nearby – and they had met at my parents' wedding in 1968. My siblings and I grew up visiting them and their 3 attractive, perfect children every year at their stunning modern abode in Winter Park, Florida, a modern lakeside mansion straight out of the glossy pages of a luxury architecture magazine.

Florida ... Florida! The palm trees would sing every time I pictured it. I was desperate to live there. Our annual visits were a source of eager anticipation during months of hostile New England winters. My sister, brother and I would dress up for the 2-hour airplane ride, sipping our ginger ale and bursting with excitement as we reached cruising altitude, then practically peeing ourselves as the stewardess maneuvered the doors open and Carrie told us to brace ourselves for the sweetest, most pleasantly humid and fragrant burst of warm air we could possibly imagine. It was heaven on earth, with hibiscus flowers.

Phil & Gail's house was a marvel to my young eyes. We would drive to Winter Park from the Orlando airport in our dull rental car, pale and mildewed from the cold, damp Connecticut winter. The sparkling, spotless cars in their vast driveway – I remember a shiny new bright red Cabriolet for their daughter Kate, a sporty green convertible BMW for Abby on her sweet 16 – asserted their glory as we pulled up in front. Opening the car door to the balmy, humid rich Florida air compounded our giddiness, and we would clamber out of the car and walk up the well-lit stone pathway to a modern glass & stone mausoleum that oozed wealth, money and ease. I wanted all of it.

Walking into Abby's house in Boise at midnight decades later brought a sweep of this nostalgia with it. I stepped inside the foyer and looked down the hallway to the left, where she had told me the guest room would be made up for me. I made a mental note to ask where she had gotten her end tables. I walked down the hall, quietly pulling my suitcase behind me, and opened the first door on the left. An inviting queen bed awaited me, colorful plush pillows piled high against the fabric headboard. I kicked off my shoes, put my purse on the bench at the foot of the bed and grabbed my phone to text Charlie that I had made it safely.

As Charlie texted back, my phone dinged with the sign to indicate a low battery. I was infamous for always running out of juice and knew I would need it for the morning drive. I fished around my purse for the charger. Damn. I'd left it in the car. I walked barefoot back down the hall to the front door and toward the table in the foyer where Abby had arranged a bevy of family pictures in gorgeous teak inlaid frames. It had been awhile since I had seen her two children, and I hardly recognized them as I placed my keys on the table and leaned in to take a closer look. A stunning wedding photo was behind the school photos of her daughter and son. Her nuptials in Sun Valley had been one of my favorite weddings ever – Phil and Gail had pulled out all the stops. But no, it wasn't their wedding pictured in the photo as I scrutinized the scene. The bride in the beautiful white dress must have been her husband Andy's sister, next to a smattering of relatives I didn't really recognize. I absent-mindedly took a peppermint from a glass bowl on the table next to the photos as I searched for one of Abby. Huh. Maybe it was de rigueur to exclude yourself from the family photo display. I needed to ask her about that interior design rule of thumb. But ... none of Andy either? And Phil and Gail were nowhere to be seen, nor was her brother Breck or sister Kate, or .....

It dawned on me as I sucked that damn peppermint a little harder that I. Was. In. The Wrong. House. Holy fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuucccckkkkkkkk. Late at night, in Boise-fucking-Idaho, no less, where intruders are suspect and guns are in ample supply. Shoot first, ask second – we're not in Cali anymore, Toto. In a flash of self-protective instinct, I dashed out the front door before I could think any further. I felt the cool mottled clay of the driveway on my feet as I ran to the dark pavement of the street. My heart was beating so rapidly I felt sure they could hear it through that open upstairs window. They. Who the fuck were they? Were They awake? Had I almost been shot?

My phone was still inside the house. My suitcase and my purse and my keys were still inside the house. My car was locked in the driveway of a complete stranger's home. What the hell? I couldn't see a number on the house from the street – I had simply taken Siri's word for it when I pulled up. What the fuck! Should I ring the doorbell? Call up to the window? I ran up the street, thinking that if I could at least identify the house I SHOULD have been in, I could at least be assured of shelter for the night.

The next house was about 50 yards up the winding, mountain road, and I crept into the driveway panting. I wheeled my head around trying to look for some identifier, some sign of confirmation that maybe this was Abby's house. I looked for their last name on the trash barrels near their driveway to no avail. I peered in the window of the equally impressive SUV parked in front of this house. I wracked my brain trying to remember the house number I had plugged into my phone a mere 30 minutes earlier in the rental car lot of the Boise airport. I finally mustered up enough courage to try the front door of this gargantuan house. The silver handle gave way under the soft pressure of my thumb and I closed my eyes as I eased the door open. A framed photograph of Abby, Andy and the kids greeted me from the marble foyer once I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. At least I knew my destination. I pulled the door shut, ran back to the other house, and was quiet as a mouse as I pushed the front door open to grab my things and hightail it back outside. I unlocked my car, put it in neutral and pushed it out of the driveway, waiting to jump in and start the ignition until I was safely in the street, then driving up the hill to start anew.

My heartbeat finally slowed as I looked up at the white ceiling, safely under the covers in the guest room in Abby's house. I didn't sleep a wink.

The next morning, laughing over lattes and a poached egg at Abby's breakfast table, she told me her NRA-loving neighbor most likely would have shot me on sight. She texted the wife of the couple, Susie, to tell her the story. Susie texted back all sorts of emojis, followed by a picture of hand dangling a peppermint by the wrapper with the ominous caption, "You owe me one." Despite my sleepless night, I was able to genuinely laugh away any remaining feelings of panic. But it occurs to me now, as I relate this story, that it was an identity crisis of sorts. An amusing one, perhaps .... but who among us hasn't felt a sense of whiplash over the past several years, thinking that we were in familiar territory, on safe ground in our cushy little American democracy, when all of a sudden the masked faces of a merciless pandemic or the hostile takeover of the Republican party by a self-absorbed orange demagogue left us searching for the home we thought we knew? James's diagnosis did that to us, one afternoon out of the blue over 4 years ago now: we were safe, we were trucking along and finding our way as new parents and young professionals. Even if certain roads were new to us, the landscape was familiar, the customs were known, we spoke the language – when all of a sudden, after walking down that stark hospital corridor with the harsh florescent lights, we found ourselves in foreign, unfamiliar, downright hostile territory. Home was a myth.

I realize my own privilege even as I write these words. After James was diagnosed, the baseline sense of constant threat was a new reality, a necessary ever-present vigilance we held to make sure he was safe. Monitoring nonstop for any small fever that could threaten his life, knowing that if I relaxed for a minute the shit could hit the fan, that feeling safe was a reckless illusion. But after these recent months of acute societal reckoning, I recognize that that baseline level of threat, that exhausting need for constant vigilance is the reality most black people live with even today in America. I used to take my country for granted, believing in the strength and sanctity of my democracy, knowing that my voice counted, assuming I would be received by welcome arms by my fellow countrymen. On the eve of this pivotal election, after 4 years of division and hate and an appeal to our baser instincts as human beings, this country no longer feels like home. It is a rude awakening, but not as harsh as it is for some. Breonna Taylor was asleep in her Home when she was shot by men who still think they had a right to bust in and take aim. How naive I was. How cozy, even snugly smug in my assumed comfort. My unconscious sense of safety.

There is so much we take for granted until it is threatened. I remember thinking as an undergrad how easy it was to walk into the courtyard of my grand Harvard dormitory, Dunster House, crimson and gold dome reaching to the sky smack in the middle of Cambridge by the picturesque Charles River. I remember thinking how accessible it all felt, how open. And then I looked down at the keycard in my hand, and thought, "Oh." I have the same feeling sometimes when I notice the white skin reflected back at me in the mirror. "Oh." How easy and automatic access can feel, when you have the right credentials, ingredients that grant you access even as you fail to notice them in your conscious awareness. You assume everyone else is working under the same algorithm. I knew I had worked my ass off to get there. But what else was reflected in the opaque white of that slim, minimalist keycard? Oh. Access, privilege, safety, comfort, acceptance, belonging – these can all be such an illusion. They can disappear in a flash. Even inside your own home.

One of my best friends grew up in Southern California with a home life that I can only describe as "eccentric." Her father, whom I adore and also call Pops, aka Santa Papa -- as his grandchildren have dubbed him for his loveable round belly and ample white beard -- was the fun-loving American Disney version of a successful drug kingpin (without the evil tendencies) back in the day. My friend recounts stories from her childhood that have us all in equal parts hysterics and disbelief. I won't elaborate here, but after she told our group of friends one story about her pet pig that gutted me even as I cackled with laughter, I asked her what it had felt like to grow up in those kinds of circumstances. Her response, so casual and yet so acutely self-aware, was, "I felt loved, but I didn't feel safe." During a snowstorm last Christmas, my own mother told us what started out as, and what we assumed would be, a lovely reminiscence: her father used to make her and her five younger siblings sleep outside of their huge house in the northern suburbs of Chicago on the outdoor "sleeping porch" in the dead of winter. They had winter boots waiting for them as they put on their pajamas and slid open the porch door, pulling on their boots to trudge through the snow piled up on the porch to their lined up cots. She had tears freeze on her face as she recited the Lord's Prayer silently to herself, sobbing harder when she got to the end, because ... what if this lasted "forever and ever?" She laughed as she told us this story until she saw our faces. And then she went back to therapy.

Back to the bedside in my role as mother. I can’t do anything about Breonna now — at least not anything for her directly, as a human being who deserved a much longer life than she was allowed by the insidious structural powers that be. I can't help my mother, except to acknowledge that her own home growing up was privileged, but far from safe in its own way. But I can help my own children. If Grace is struggling with something, I want her to feel secure in that most basic of human needs: safety, shelter, a sense of place and belonging. Perhaps safety is an illusion, but it is a powerful one nonetheless. She is safe in our home with us looking out for her, and she is loved by her parents with the full force of that emotion. It is what I uttered to James every night while rocking him during the hardest moments of his brutal journey, whispering these words over and over and conveying with my maternal touch what I wanted him to know in his viscera: "You are safe, and you are loved." To comfort one another, to offer safety and a sense of home: as far as I can tell, this is the most we can do for each other as human beings.