Back to Suburbia

As I was pulling into my new neighborhood to unload, yet another car full of boxes, I heard that familiar song running through my head: "Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky, little boxes on the hillside, little boxes just the same."

I was back in Suburbia, once again, and the only difference between this new neighborhood in California and my old neighborhood in Washington is that it rains less, and there's a gay couple that lives across the street. How sick is this: the house we are moving into on Wednesday was built by the same company that did our Washington house.

It's been over two years since I started this blog in an effort to try to reconcile the life I lead with the inner me that feels awkward in this suburban existance. More often than not, I feel like an alien walking around amongst these perfect houses with smiley neighbors keeping busy in their perfect yards. In my heart I feel that I don't belong here, but at the same time I'm not rushing to change it.

I've heard other people talk about this. They are like me; grew up poor, were never supposed to make it, but they did. They achieved the 'rags to riches' American dream, yet remain patently uncomfortable with their life circumstance. Not that they, or I, want more, it's more of a feeling of guilt, like someone from such humble beginnings doesn't deserve to have so much.

I look at my new, massive, beautiful house, which I know I will be happy raising my child in, but there's a part of me that, remembers being the little girl who, for awhile, lived in a 300 square foot studio apartment with her baby sister and young, single mother.

Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of what I've done, because given my upbringing, background and statistics, I should never be where I am today. Thankfully, I've never thought much of statistics and I'm always willing to give an enormous "fuck you" to anyone who attempts to tell me what I should be or what I should do or what I should say.

This house is monumental for another reason; one that is the reason why I'm taking shelter in the comforts of Suburbia, this is my 50th residence. In my 34 years of life, I have had 50 addresses. Some places I managed to stay in for years (although not many) and some I stayed for a few months. Moving around taught me that home is where your family is, but it also left me with feelings of insecurity like no matter where I was, I didn't belong there. I don't want to pass that onto Rachael. She should have the comfort of knowing where her bed is at night, and feeling like no matter what she's up against, there will always be a place she can come home to.

So here I am ready to re-enter Suburbia having told my husband that we will stay a minimum of 10 years in our new house. Sandwiched between the very nice, mixed race couple on one side, and the very nice, taking Christmas decorations to a new and disturbing level neighbors on the other side, I will find a way to reconcile my past with what my life is now. Thankfully, my job is demanding enough that I don't have to join the PTA.