Coming Home to Georgia: A Memoir

Another time. Another place. Another life.

This is only a preview of a memoir I will be working on in the near future. What follows is a piece I wrote late one night on August 16, 2007 all in one sitting. It is only an excerpt of what was written. The finished memoir will recount my time spent in Athens, Georgia from the summer of 2006 to the spring of 2007. Note: some of the names have been changed.

PART ONE:

STRANGE.

We coursed through the night,

the rain dropping around us, shooting pellets at our windshield. Our modest-sized U-Haul caboose trailed behind us. The street signs were barely visible in this vast and wide suburbia. There were a couple of shopping centers on either side. A Starbucks on the corner. We couldn’t seem to find the street we needed to make a right on. So we made a wrong turn at some road with a name I can’t remember, passed yet another empty parking lot with yards after yards of green flying past us…bushes and trees filling my car window, as did many tall hedges. I knew this was the wrong street. But I was relieved. The closer we came to our intended destination, the closer I came to catapulting into a life I was, at this point, scared to start living.

I had never lived on my own—really. If you don’t count college. And I most certainly had not lived on my own in a place practically 3,000 miles away from home. I was on my way to a new home in Athens, GA, to live with my boyfriend Miguel of two years at the time. My step-dad and my mom insisted on driving me, my brother and my sister, in their Expedition (plus, a U-Haul) from Long Beach, CA to Georgia in order to be sure I’d get settled in nicely. I could not wait to be with Miguel.

This would be our second year living together. Deciding I’d rather live in his world than live without him in mine, as that good ole' Gladys Knight and the Pips song goes, I agreed to move to Georgia, where he would be spending the next two years pursuing his Masters at UGA. “He wants to save the Amazon,” I always told people.

By the time I arrived, Miguel had already been living at our new home and going to class for two weeks. Once we returned from our summer NY-RI trip, Miguel had packed up his things, kissed me good-bye, and flew at lightning speed to Athens, GA in his trusty ole silver Honda Civic. He made the 2,247-mile stretch in less than 3 days. When Miguel set his mind to something, he did it.

I knew once I arrived, my task for the next several weeks or so would be to get a job…any job really, moreso to occupy my time than anything else. Later, I’d learn my idle behavior, characterized greatly by sitting around the house, watching television all day, would make it hard for Miguel to tolerate me. Oh so hard.

My step-dad pulled his Expedition into the driveway of UGA Family Housing, Lot S. My eyes scanned the rows of rusty red doors, each jailed behind a metal screen door. A wall of bricks ran in between them. A small window sat in the bricks, up high enough to prevent a passer-byer from looking in, but making it needlessly difficult for someone inside to jump out in case of a fire or flood.

Hallway lamps emitted a yellowish glow into the black night. I looked at my new home, and heard the cicadas shrilling and zipping around me. I could hear their drone even through the car windows. Nobody was outside. No one could probably see me, though I could see a few lights burning bright from those tiny, high-up windows. My hand rested on the handle of the car door. I wondered if Georgia would have me.

PART TWO:

The humidity. The humidity kept me back. I could feel its presence looming outside the car, attempting to smother any object it could grab hold of.

The cool glass of the windows seemed to increase in temperature. The rain outside did nothing to combat the heat.

Inside the Expedition, I felt my clothes sticking to crevices I didn’t even know I had. Beads of moisture found their way down the denim-covered backs of my thighs. Every strand of hair at the top of my head unraveled themselves from the limp state a flat iron had coaxed them into only a few days prior. I pressed down at the springing fibers, hoping to shove them back into place. My forefingers traced the bottom of either eye, habitually removing any excess eyeliner that may have been smudged downwards.

I prepared myself for my emergence into the rain. I drew my rain jacket over myself, pulling the lid of my hood close against my forehead. I waited, along with Alan, my stepdad, and half my family, for Miguel to come out.

A few moments later, we saw a form coming towards us. Butterflies began swarming around in my stomach as I waited for Miguel to approach. Everyone stepped out of the car.

My family greeted him. I stood aside, shy and blushing. He asked if we got there okay. A few more exchanges of greetings and soon, everyone was unloading the U-Haul and bringing my things into the apartment.

I held my breath as I carried my lamp towards the building. This was it. I’m here, I thought. Who else lived here? What were they like? Would they like me? Will I like them? What kind of conversations will I have with these people? Oh, God, let them tolerate me. Oh, God.

I walked towards the yellow haze, across the bridge that made a loud clanging sound each time you stomped over either end of it, around the tight corner, and up the stairs. Two flights of stairs…we were at the top level. I looked at the peach-colored mortar that coated the bricks which encased the staircase…my hand grazed the narrow black railing. I reached the top and made my way over to the third door from the right which was propped open.

Here, I go, I thought.

Inside. Before I left California, Miguel had told me over the phone that our apartment was, basically, several walls of cinder block, painted cream, and hard, tiled floors. He had said I probably wouldn’t like it too much, though he liked it just fine, saying, “It’s kinda nice.” So, I was entirely prepared for what greeted me when I actually entered our new home.

He was right. It was just a few walls of cinder block and several hundred square feet of tiled floors. I’ll always remember my mom’s reaction. She tried hard to conceal her distaste, but the wrinkled up nose told all. She was not too thrilled. But no surprise there. That’s just mom for you.

I, having been warned beforehand, was not too dismayed at what I saw. Miguel had the AC on and a cold, musty breeze of air whipped through the apartment, trying hard to break up the humidity. There was not much furniture, as most of our furniture from our California apartment had yet to be brought in from the car and the U-Haul caboose.

In the master bedroom, lay a bunch of rolled-out, tossed-about sleeping bags Miguel had been using for the past two weeks. In the second bedroom, rested his five bicycles. In the living room was his compact computer desk and in the storage closet was…storage.

The kitchen was a good size with lots of cabinet and drawer space, and a plentiful surplus of roaches, too, I might add.

My mom was particularly put-off by the bathroom with its dingy shower and rusty medicine cabinet, but I looked around my apartment and smiled. This place, I felt, had potential.

But better than that, it was my own. Mine, and Miguel’s.

PART THREE:

BEGINNING TO END.

My mom continued to help me get settled for the next two days, taking me to Target and to the bank to open up a new account. She, Alan, my brother and my sister were staying in Westin Inn for the remaining of the trip in Georgia.

I felt so young and so much like a teenager, walking into that Bank of America with my mom. We were taken into the assistant manager’s office; he was a plump man with a friendly face and white moustache. I was 21, yet I felt like I was 12. He asked questions, my mom helped answer them. I was grateful that she was there.

I remember entering the Athens Target for the first time, located on Atlanta Highway. Target. I knew Target. Everyone knew Target. All Targets looked pretty much the same. But…this one wasn’t the same. These weren’t Californians. These were Georgians. Hardly one Latin American, Asian, or even African-American walked among them. They spoke with accents. Just by a glance, something seemed different.

Of course, a great deal of that “difference” I perceived stemmed from my own self-consciousness. I knew I was different. I knew I didn’t belong. (You can’t just place a piece of celery into a pot of turnips and call it a turnip.) I walked into that Target with a weird sense of confidence mixed in with fear.

I think that’s how I approached many of the places I came upon in Athens when I first entered them. My head would tell me, “I’m confident. Wait, no, I’m scared. Wait, no, I’m confident. Wait, no! I’m scared!!”

When my mom and the rest of my family left Athens, I was quite sad to see them go. It was funny. I had been so anxious to get to Georgia and see Miguel, but when it was time to say good-bye to them, I almost did not want to let go. I think I cried a little inside when I hugged my little sister good-bye, and when they left, it was like, “Good-bye, California.” Good-bye, ways of the past. My eyes burned in sorrow, as I waved them off.

I eyed my Georgia apartment.

Oh, crap. I’m here.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

-timestamped August 16, 2007, approx. 3 am.-