The Farewell.

Issue 009: Toni's open letter to her childhood home

The Last Black Man in San Francisco (A24)

In my dreams, home continues to hold the same location. It rarely changes; my mind is exacting in the details. A tree stump previously belonging to a tall body of branches invites me to a walkway. Beginning with two shrubs of greenery, they guide me to a forest green railing that hugs beige concrete steps. Behind a screen door is the proper door to the house, a knocker that I never really use right at my eye level. Sometimes, I don't get to go inside, but I always hope I do, for when I wake up, it'll no longer be possible. 

My last day in my childhood home was December 30th, 2021. I spent 16 years of my life in that house and thought it'd remain that way for much longer. It'd be silly of me to say I even expected to stay forever, but it's all I knew. It wasn't a house that my family owned; the urgency of our leaving came as the owner decided to sell it on a whim. We had around three months to find somewhere else to stay. As the primary household had already begun splitting gradually, this was the final catalyst to speed it up conclusively. My parents live in another state, and the eldest has her own space, leaving the middle and last born (myself) to venture into uncharted territory. Even when I think about it now, the memory is hazy. It all came very quickly: packing up my life and cramping it elsewhere, the space that once allowed me to grow becoming exceedingly hallow slowly, then all at once.

Being a tenant in a home that the owner wants to sell brings forth some disconcerting experiences, for me at least. There were house showings where I was present, and of course, there were informal photos of all rooms. I don't know what's worse: having the photos taken at the time with my personal belongings in them or the fact that the ghost of my past home life remains on Zillow if anyone wants a quick glimpse out of curiosity. A couple of months ago, I enthusiastically decided to have a peek and was left with a lump in my throat; rediscovering the trove of minor details buried inside was the tragedy I couldn't take my eyes from and felt unbearably identical to the opening of a wound. 

Isn't this the typical run of the show? So what if the house was getting sold? And yet, I still took all of it personally. It wasn't my house, but it was my home. Is it odd to grieve something that I don't own but holds the vast majority of my memories? That house was the only constant in my life. That December, I was 20 years old, experiencing the comedown of mania, and through all of the foreign feelings, the physical place where my body lays stayed the same. During times when I didn't understand what was going on with me or the people around me, this setting didn't change, and I was comforted by the idea that I would exist there regardless of my instability. I believe this is what made it so intense, processing that my old reliable would suddenly lose its title while having abounding meaning to me. 

That house will go on to have meaning to more people, whoever owns it now and even those who will have their turn in the future. It received the modern makeover, as many fixer-uppers get these days: white cabinets with gold knobs, marble counters, sleek but also dull. I got to experience its golden era, a yellow kitchen and hallway, playful green carpeting, and warm woods galore. Those quirks kept it homey and alive compared to the current market's predominantly white, black, and beige interiors. I was the last to appreciate its uniqueness, and I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

I've moved twice since leaving that house, and nothing has felt even vaguely similar to home, but I anticipated this. It's been two apartments that serve as a place to sleep and nothing more, and I prefer being out more than just being in my dwellings. It's a funny feeling, not exactly wanting to be in public but also not feeling connected to where you stay. My bedroom walls remained white and plain, and it'd be a true mystery to figure out who lived there; these rooms were no match for my pink bedroom walls, once decorated with posters, memorabilia, and endearing dashes of my personality. My current room (in apartment two) only has a calendar on the wall, missing several "X" marks from days that have passed and slipped away without my attention. 

I've convinced myself that all these unnerving feelings of not belonging to somewhere are related to leaving the nest, but my lack of preparation for this phase continues to have me winded years later. As uncomfy as it may be, where I'm at is fitting for my early twenties. At some point, I know I'll be able to make a home for myself, and I'll know I got it right when it reminds me of the first place to truly live up to that name. I like to think of this piece as my way of finally closing this chapter, giving myself the closure I've been searching for in a concurrently straightforward and perplexing scenario. I've mourned for quite some time now, and as a parting gift, I want to reflect on my favorite moments I've had while staying in my childhood home:

1. On (I can't recall exactly which) Christmas Eve, my dad put together a three-story doll house to surprise me, infamously putting the kitchen on the wrong side, but he ensured it was on the correct side for the big reveal. That doll house took my breath away; it was full of color, so many shades of pink, the epitome of chic in my mind as an excited little girl. The ground floor had a bathroom, kitchen, and an elevator. The second one had a bedroom and a spiraled staircase. The third was another bedroom that had an opening to a balcony space. Attached to the outside of that area was the windup tool used to make the elevator move between the first two floors, and it never got old. My Polly Pocket dolls were living lavishly, okay!  

   I was super protective of this doll house and placed every piece of furniture with intention along with the dolls. Of course, it was playtime, but I also needed to create a scene, a treat for the eyes. Whenever my younger cousins were at my house and took the pieces out of position to play with them, my parents always teased me about my awkwardly pained expression. I implored my cousins to have fun, but I knew I'd only exhale after I returned everything to how it was. I laugh now because it's definitely one of the earlier memories of my more neurotic behaviors. What can I say? I absolutely adored that doll house until I grew out of the need to engage with toys, and we had a glorious run.

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2. My parents were big on sprucing up the backyard during the warmer seasons. Once it hit a certain degree, it was time for the gazebo and string lights to reemerge. During the springtime one year, my dad planted flowers in our backyard, and naturally, I proudly took on the role of gardening assistant. I had a pet peeve of getting my hands and clothes dirty, and I also hated sweating (all of these still apply in the present, truthfully), but taking part in this kind of activity was like exposure therapy. All of the hard work paid off because our sunflowers were hugeeee. They towered over my dad and me, over 6 feet tall, our finest achievement at the time. 

   I faintly remember this little project of ours starting a battle with bees, squirrels, and raccoons, and I fear they won since we didn't resume the planting. Back then, I was very young and thought plants grew at a more accelerated pace than they actually did, and I peeked out my window regularly in hopes of a dramatic change in their appearance. I was taught patience by seeing the slow burn of its evolution, and it was extremely rewarding to think about how it all came about through the hands-on work my dad and I put in. I wish we had more gardening adventures there, but I cherish this one deeply. 

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3. All the backyards were connected in a way, just separated by a fence. When I was in mine, my neighbors' yards were to my left and right, which also applied to the space directly across from me. That family had a big pool, and their volleyballs would land in our yard during their water games, and we'd toss them back. Time and time again, my mom and I would look from her bedroom window and agree on how nice it must've felt to lounge in a cool body of water on a hot summer day. Although we couldn't have a pool, I had my alternatives.

   My mom loved buying sprinklers; they were affordable and effective. I remember having one with a circular center and colorful tubes around it. Once you connected the hose and turned it on, the middle would spin vigorously and spray water, causing the tubes to squiggle and blast water. Some days, I'd run through it on my own and other times, my best friend and I would jump between the middle together; such a simple product thrilled us until the heat of the sun subsided. The house I lived in was less than five minutes from a Rite Aid, which was my go-to for any last-minute items I needed. My brother and I would purchase water balloons, another activity that allowed us to cool down. I spent most of the playtime dry due to running away because I feared the impact of the balloon popping on my skin, but it was time well spent. Afterward, the concrete in my backyard lit up with bright hues. Purple, green, orange, yellow, and blue pieces of rubber were scattered all over. As much as I hated the cleanup, I knew I wouldn't deny the chance to run around, laugh, and have the satisfaction of tossing water balloons at my sibling again.

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4. I never really thought of it this way, but my neighborhood showed me the meaning of community. Although it wasn't a big one, it was very small and impactful. From the woman who owned the laundromat near me, who would chat with my mom and greet me when I came along, who was increasingly astonished by my growth each visit, to the people who lived beside me. To the left of me was an elderly couple that engaged with us frequently, and they loved my dad. We would receive all types of sweet treats, breads, and extras of home-cooked meals from them out of pure kindness. I didn't even need to see the name on the caller ID, and just from the number alone, I knew that it was her asking if I could stop by and pick up things, and sometimes it would turn into a quick chat in her living room. It's hard to come across genuinely lovely people, and it was necessary to be surrounded by this energy while growing up. They were a part of our village, both possessing an infectious spirit and extraordinary storytelling abilities. May they rest in peace, our family friends indefinitely. 

   To my right was a mom with two kids a couple of years younger than me. After my doorbell rang, "Can Antonia come outside?" was the question that ensued numerous days of the week. We played tag, hide and seek, wacky made-up games with faulty rules, and rode our bikes on our block until we were exhausted and ready to head home. I attended the daughter's birthday party, went to the son's baseball game, and routinely chatted with their mom, aunt, and grandma. Still, I could never get along with their feisty and unrelenting pomeranian. We outgrew each other as we got older, which is pretty common with many kids who befriended their neighbors, but we always remained cordial. I went out to eat with my sister in the winter of 2022, and we saw the family out at the restaurant we went to; as someone who is consistently worried about seeing people I know when I'm out and about, in this instance, it was refreshing to see familiar faces. We've all grown so much, but just the sight of them takes me back to sitting in my driveway, eagerly talking over each other and debating how we'd spend our afternoon. 

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5. My best friend would come over nearly every weekend. She's family, so everyone in my household was accustomed to this and expected her presence. I had this pink pouch full of nail polishes, and that was usually the first thing we'd do: paint our nails and toes. In my tweens, I was a frequenter of the store Claire's, and in addition to my usual purchases of jewelry, headbands, and iPod cases, I'd get their bedazzled makeup trinkets with the built-in mirror. On a good day, we would rub the glitter across our eyelids and put on lipgloss, a cute shirt, and a tutu. My mom had a dark purple digital camera; at one point, it belonged to me and my best friend due to the number of pictures we'd take there. 

   It was our fashion show, and it felt like the world was ours. These moments were the key to boosting my confidence at that age and feeling comfortable in my ever-changing body. Whenever one of us was in front of the camera, we would only hear positivity from the person behind it, and honestly, only our opinions mattered. The feeling of hyping up a friend and having that love poured back into you is revitalizing. Looking back, I'm so grateful that we encouraged each other to be ourselves and find joy during a sensitive time in our girlhood. Different days with the same finish: one hand on our hip, throwing up a peace sign, the camera flash repeatedly twinkling in my yellow hallway.

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6. For the finale, let's fast-forward to one of my later memories in my house: Christmas 2018. I was 17 years old when my parents gifted me my first record player. It was perfect, and one of my favorite presents I've ever received, a chestnut brown Victrola suitcase player. I thoroughly enjoyed embellishing it with stickers from Redbubble, a new edition every few weeks. The top of the player undoubtedly screamed me and represented all of my interests from that time. The first record I got was Justin Bieber's Purpose, which my mom bought for me almost two years prior while we browsed at the old Urban Outfitters near Union Square. Since that was the only one I had before growing my collection, I played it begrudgingly as a semi-retired belieber. I find that really funny in retrospect.

   I used that record player persistently until I noticed the wear it was causing on my vinyl. Eventually, I had to upgrade, but man, oh man, did we have a time together. It was all I looked forward to after school! I'd lay on my tummy on my bedroom floor with it next to me as I did homework, then my concentration would break, and I'd get up and dance. It was an experience I could wholeheartedly call mine, shaping how I continue to engage with music in my physical space. Having a record player gave me the motivation and much-needed inspiration to start collecting vinyl as a hobby, one that I'm still incredibly passionate about. I'm currently at 98 vinyl records, and it makes me so happy to say that it all started from listening to my favorite projects in my room. 

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I've had this idea for months and let it sit in my drafts out of fear of the piece being too sad and uninteresting. Despite my initial doubts, I refocused and decided that this is worthy of sharing. I’m doing this for me. Letting this out has felt so good and healing, and I'm glad I could muster up the courage to share something so personal with you all. Now you know about this piece of me that I'll carry forever, the past life that has formed beautiful qualities in my present life. I'm no longer the girl who used to live here but the woman lucky enough to have a haven that harbored countless transformative stages. I'll always be thankful. 

December 30, 2021

Here is one of my last glances into my empty bedroom from my hallway before leaving the house for good. I've already said my goodbye at that moment, but now I'm ready to move forward in peace and hold the memory of this place in my heart most ardently. 

So long and much love to my beloved home, 

Your Antonia

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