Somewhere, sometime, in the back corner of my brain, I made the promise to myself I was only ever going to drop the word “home” in reference to one place. There’s a white house with a gravel drive and quasi-green grass on a corner lot in Richmond. That dandelion speckled plot, my friends, is hallowed ground. That’s home.
And only that is home.
Never mind the fact I was to spend four years in a community 70 miles west of that one-acre of backyard. Saying I was “going home,” with all its feelings of relief and rejuvenation, needed to forever remain a wholly special and nostalgic experience.
Should Charlottesville suddenly become home, I would be insulting the rearing which gave me the right to call my house a home in the first place. If I adorned anywhere besides the 804-area code with this honor, my deceased body would roll over in its grave.
Or so I thought — until I caved. Rewind about 48 hours before this moment. Myself: phone in hand, feet pounding on pavement post-class. Another passing conversation with my dear mother was piping along per usual — a, “How’s Dad? How’s the dog?” sort of flow. Nothing came up which required me to be particularly conscious of my words. It felt as routine as pouring the morning coffee, which is what makes our conversations so lovely to begin with.
It’s not so different from why home itself is so perfect — it’s easy. It works. It doesn’t require much thought, which is the opposite of University life.
The chatter ensued quite gracefully until my words came to a crashing halt. My Jiminy Cricket wailed and panicked, “Whoa there! What do you think you’re doing?” Yes, I was about to refer to Charlottesville as “home.” I stopped myself at once with an awkward gawk, which somehow translated through the phone to my mother.
“Kate?”
“Yeah, sorry. Just distracted for a second.”
Our lovely chatter resumed. The near slip-up was like catching a toe on the edge of the rug — it knocked the wind out of me for a split second, but should have been forgotten in equal time. Yet it resonated with me long afterward. What was even more criminal about the occurrence was that I didn’t plug my ears at the sound of dropping the “H word” in reference to Charlottesville.
Normally, that word tastes bitter on my tongue when used for anything besides the white house 70 miles east. For the past two semesters, I have tried to force myself to enjoy calling Charlottesville my home, feeling it would transform my experience here into something rich yet comfortable. But time and time again, I tried to savor the word, only to end up spitting it out in disgust. During this particular conversation with my mother, though, this wasn’t the case.
So what gives? Like with any word or story, experience is what defines language. As I came to know and love this college town we all share, my personal pocket dictionary somehow rewrote itself to include room for Charlottesville under its definition of “home.”
In doing so, this word lost its exclusivity for Richmond. However, broadening the horizons just a smidge has not diffused the power of the word at all. It still rings remarkable. When I call the 804 and the 434 “home” in their different respects, they are not put in competition with one another. They share not an “either/or” relationship, but one that joins them with “and.” Home for me is Richmond and Charlottesville. And boy, it sure is nice to always be home.
Kate’s column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at k.colver@cavalierdaily.com.
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