Documentary of Home by Alexandria Jones

I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself. —Maya Angelou

Desoto had been my home for more than 10 years of my life. The many friends I made. The churches I grew up in. The sleepovers. The fights. The bipolar weather.  The trips to Austin with friends, or waking up on a Saturday morning and having the feeling of warmness and togetherness among my family and me. The many experiences that made Desoto home for me. But, I knew it wouldn’t be home my whole life. I always knew I wanted to get out of Texas and be in the city. Whether it was in California, New York, or Chicago, I knew I would see myself in one of these amazing cities. I knew I would find a new place to call home, but I would never forget where home base was.

Image of the author as a child with her siblings

It was the summer of 1998. The green grass, wind blowing, two big Uhaul trucks. Big house on a big hill. Confusion, yet excitement upon the faces of innocent children who have just made a new discovery. A new area, new place, new feel, new home. I was too young to take in the proper enjoyment, but I can remember walking into the empty house and immediately looking up to see this enormous crystal chandelier, looking outside the windows and seeing an empty pool filled with dirt and trash but still imagining all the fun I would have in there. Catching the aroma of “newness” and the smell of emptiness. I knew memories would be made in the house.

Waking up in the warmness of the blue and red plaid covers, covered with the smell of febreeze and detergent. The sun from my shutters shines light throughout my room, emphasizing the scattered clothes along the floor, the many posters along the wall, blinding my eyes, forcing me to pull the covers back over my head. Hearing the wind blow outside of the window, and the birds chirping on the trees. I finally get up to hear Matt and Mason arguing over the Xbox game, because Mason was mad he didn’t win. Jordan, who is always in her own zone, is talking on the phone, or lounging on the couch on the computer just playing her music. The smell of bacon, eggs, and sausage fills the house, and I quickly run down the stairs to the kitchen to make sure it was not all eaten, since I am always the last one to get up. Mom is in her room reading the newspaper or magazines, checking to see if there are any coupons she can collect. I would run into my mom’s room and jump on the bed and talk about anything. She was there whenever I needed here for advice about boys, school, etc. I see my dad outside cleaning out the pool, slowly collecting leaves and throwing them out. I pounce on the couch, stealing the remote from my sister, turning to something I’d like to watch. Ruling the house because I was the oldest and I had those privileges.

 Picture of Obelisk reading DeSoto, Texas 2006

Leaving my neighborhood, making a right on Cockrell Hill Drive, I’m passing by houses, trees, daycares to the left and right of me. There are construction signs everywhere, because they are widening out the road, but they always took years to complete. I continue to drive and there is a church to the left of me, which is also a school, but I’ve never visited; the houses behind the church are spread far apart with much land in between. There are horses and cows in the fields eating the grass, with rocky roads and lots of trees. I always called it the small country part of our suburban city. Going to the Albertson’s grocery store and hearing the same words from the same people, “Hi, Alex what are you buying today?” I felt like these people were family; I knew them and they knew me. Driving into Sonic from 2-4pm everyday to get a half-off drink and playing on the intercom system or messing with the employees as they were skating. My friends and I sitting around singing choir songs until the early morning. There are people running, walking their dogs, washing cars. The connections I made with the people that had come into my life. I was comfortable with my life here. It’s not as fast paced as Downtown is, but it’s just the right pace. Driving around late at night, when there are no cars to be found, going to the park right down the street from my high school to take a jog, or to sit and think. This small suburb is called Desoto, a city within a city, everyone knowing each other’s families, and knowing what went on in the community. It was my home for more than ten years, but I had to get out. I needed something new, fast, something like me.

 Image of State Street in Chicago

My first day in Chicago, September 4, 1983. I set foot in this city, and just walking down the street, it was like roots, like the motherland. I knew I belonged here. —Oprah Winfrey

August 30th. 9:30 am. Midway Airport. Beautiful, bright, sunny day. Waiting on the Orange line CTA to Van Buren and Library. Two giant suitcases, one carry-on. One confused, excited look upon a new Chicago native’s face. Hop on the train and take about a 15-minute ride to my stop. I don’t know where I’m going, I can only remember the directions my mother gave me before I left. Sweat dripping down my forehead, arms throbbing from the pain of rolling two suitcases. Horns are honking, people talking, and smells of pizza and cigarettes fill the air. I arrive at a building which I assume is mine. “Hi, is this the Dwight Residence Hall?” Security guard shakes her head no, and points me in the direction I am to go. I figure I can no longer walk; I gather the rest of the strength I have in my arms to call a cab and one pulls up to assist me. We pull off for what is a 3 minute ride to my residence hall. Multiple cars parked in front of the building, parents running in and out of the building with loads of boxes and other items. I take my things out of the trunk, pay and thank the cab driver, stand in front of the building, breathe, and slowly walk in to what is the beginning of my new life.

Room 307. I hear voices, so that means I’m not the first one. I walk in, still sweating from the pulling and tugging. Apartment completely empty, except for the furniture provided for us. The blinds fully opened; that way not a single shade of darkness was filling the room. To the left the kitchen which had utensils, pots and pans spread everywhere. Boxes, bags, and suitcases filled our living room, with barely any place to set anything down. Morgan, who was also from Texas, also about my height, brown hair, light brown eyes, quickly approached me. We shook hands, and I met her parents, who were really nice. Grace, a native of Illinois, red hair, blue eyes, and fairly skinny, came after Morgan. I could tell she was a rebel but had to play nice in front of her parents. Kate, another native of Illinois, slightly shorter than me, brunette hair, brown eyes, and witty spoke to me the most. I met her mom, who, invited me to join them for lunch; I accepted. The last, Chelsea, who lived in Michigan, was shorter than all of us, long brunette hair, with brown eyes. We had talked during the summer, and we were just alike; we both liked to have fun. I was alone, my parents had not traveled with me to help move in. I had to do everything on my own.

Image of the Author's Dorm room, containing a bed, desk, and computer

I unlocked the door to my room, and it was dark. One desk against the wall, a closet painted orange, and one full-size bed against the wall. I thought, “Where could I possibly start?” I unloaded all of my suitcases and put up everything I could. My mom had to ship most of my stuff down. Even when I finished unpacking, it still felt empty. Time passed, and I added little by little. A poster here and there. A lamp, lights hanging on the wall. Pictures of back home, that reminded me of Texas. Every morning waking up to say “Good morning,” to Morgan, or talking to Chelsea about problems that I’m having with work or people. Kate who had A.D.D. and her making us laugh at some of the things she would do. Morgan was our mother of the dorm, she took care of us when we were sick, we could talk to her about all of our problems and she would be there for us. She was like my mom being here. The Friday night movies, with popcorn and ice cream. The Tuesday night Glee parties. The late night runs to Target. Each one of my roommates had a little piece of my friends back home, and sharing those experiences that helped create this new home for me.

 Image of Buckingham Fountain, Chicago

Image of outside Wrigley Field at night

Every time I step foot outside my apartment I know there is an adventure somewhere in the city. I love taking walks and not knowing which direction I am going. Seeing new places, new people, or sitting at the Buckingham fountain, listening to my music, and just people watching. Walking to Navy Pier and smelling the different aromas of food, but still smelling the wisp of the lake. Waiting for the train, and having all sorts of entertainment, whether it’s a woman singing in a wedding veil, or an old drunk man dancing to Michael Jackson songs. Going to Belmont and discovering new thrift shops, café spots, or wherever the wind takes me. Walking down the street and having puffs of smoke  hit me in the face from the many people that smoke but not caring because it’s a part of the city. My friends and I, staying out until 6 in the morning, either singing in the practice rooms, or watching romantic movies crying our eyes out. Arguing about pointless things and making up within minutes. The fact that I was able to open up and be comfortable around people who reminded me of my friends back home. Walking down State Street and having homeless people stalk me for a little change, or making friends with the security guards at the UC because I’m always there. Late night walks to 7-11. Meeting famous rappers in a clothing store, or waiting outside of my favorite rapper’s dressing room door to meet him. Being in an environment where anything goes. A community where I am so surrounded by artists and creative people. A community where I am able to blend and stand out at the same time. A place where I can call my home away from home.