A sense of self

Yesterday I closed the bank account that I have had for eighteen years. It was in a little branch - the only one - about seven miles from where I live, with people I have never met before. It took me twenty minutes to drive there what with all the lights and traffic in Philadelphia. The woman at the bank said she was sorry to see me leave them. "Well," I explained, "There are so few branches of your bank. I have to travel many miles each time I need to make any type of transaction that isn't on-line." The manager nodded understandingly. I continued, "In Buffalo, there are so many of your branches. I set up my account 18 years ago when I first came to America. This is sad for me." The woman looked up at me and smiled kindly. "We are truly sorry when an excellent customer leaves us," she said gently. Her fingers moved swiftly across the keys as she gave the computer instructions to close the account. She smiled, "I have to give you back one penny," she said. My eyes filled with tears. "I shall keep that penny because this is a bit emotional for me." She gave me the penny. I tucked it into a special place in my wallet as a keepsake. We shook hands and I drove home.

I've been thinking about what constitutes home for me, since Ronni started her new blog. Actually, I have been thinking of it for some time. Ever since we arrived in Philadelphia in December last year. I have moved many times in my life. Within cities, across continents, countries and states. Mostly I did not think of it very much. I packed my bags, boxes, said goodbye and moved on. When I came to the United States from Israel many years ago - in addition to leaving a job, friends, and home, I left a husband and all my family. I came to a new country but also to the very different culture of academia. In fact, I emigrated to America to find my self. I needed to move physically far enough away from my family to establish new boundaries of self. It took years of formal study as well as therapy for me to understand this.

And yet, this time my recent move from Buffalo to Philadelphia, from the State of New York to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, has seemed difficult indeed. Sometimes I wonder if it is because of my age. After all, many things have to change each time I move. The phone, cable, electricity, gas, water companies; supermarkets, garden stores, gas stations, take-out restaurants, favorite sushi places, banks; doctors, dentists, where to have a mammogram; streets, roads, avenues and the 7-11 on the corner. Not to mention, friends, work place and the new route for my power walk.

For me a sense of place is connected to my sense of self. I realize that it really does not matter what my home is. I have lived in the tiniest of apartments, houses, rented or bought spaces. Once I lay down my worn rugs, hang up my old pictures, spread out my plants, and connect up the computer the place becomes home. I am a lot like my cats. Litter box, food and water, familiar blankets and carpets and they are on their way. Me too. It does not matter who the people are, either. Wherever I go people are the same. Wanderers on a life journey with me, no matter their culture, color, creed, gender, abilities, life style, age, socio-economic status, ways of expressing themselves - suffering, enjoying, loving and hating, desires, jealousies, disappointments, anxiety, fears and joyfulness. Everywhere I go it doesn't take too long before I make friends with people in my new housing project, apartment building, village, town, city or country.

I realize that it is the feeling of anonymity that is the hardest to overcome. It is as if each time I move, pieces of my past have been wiped out. People seem to stare right through me not knowing where I come from or what I have experienced. I am invisible. And in order to gain a sense of self, who I am right now, I have to tell my story over and over again. This has been the most exhausting part of my recent move.

As I create stories about me and my history on this blog I renew my sense of self. I go to a new store, or walk around the aisles of an unfamiliar supermarket and start to feel weary. But when I come home to my blog there you all are, with comments and encouragement. When I visit your sites you are telling your stories and we share our selves in intimate ways. I shore up a sense of self to go out into the newness of my neighborhood again.

After I left the old bank yesterday, I drove home fatigued. My eyes were burning and head was starting to ache. I lay down on the couch feeling oh, so tired. And then I remembered the blog. I ran out to my patio, computer under my arm, cup of tazo chai in hand, calling Molly and Ada to join me.

As I tell you all my story, I weave my sense of self together once again. Fatigue, headache, and burning eyes all fade away. I am home.

Comments

[the narrator]

In my moves, yes, I know these emotions, and you told them so well. Of course each time I really struggle to get comfortable. Where I am (now over 3 years) is still not home...

[Ronni Bennett]

With each new blog entry I read about a sense of place, I see that the Wallace Berry quote I threw up on my new blog in such haste that I got the author wrong at first ("If you don't know where you are, you don't know who you are") was (accidentally) prescient.

In that long list of needed "partners" in your new home, you are establishing the "where" so you'll continue to know the "who" - your sense of self.

[fp]

Silly Ronni! It's WENDELL, not Wallace. But I get the point. Tamar, this is as beautiful an homage to place as I have ever read. Thanks.

[Tamar]

fp: thanks so much for the link. Much appreciated.

Ronni: your blogs are an inspiration to my sense of self.

the narrator: I wish you a strong sense of self. For me, shedding my fear and telling my story helps me find my home.

[nappy40]

I'm restless. Always restless. I like change and I like to move. That feeling of invisibility is difficult to deal with, and most of all I hate telling others The Story over and over again.

[purple_kangaroo]

I went through a time period of feeling like I didn't know myself . . . almost like I was an empty shell. It was when I learned not to be afraid of silence and alone-ness and to find "me, myself and I" good company that I started to feel like a real person again.

[Natalie]

Tamar you have so well expressed the sense of exile, or "homelessness" that I know so well. We moved so often when I was a child, so often went through the rituals of packing, clearing out one place and settling into another, that I never knew what it was like to 'belong' to one city or country or continent. I still don't know. Though I've lived in London for a long time, I could just as well be somewhere else. This is in some ways liberating but on the other hand, there's a longing for that sense of place, of being anchored to a particular soil, a landscape.

[Tamar]

Nappy 40: It certainly does become tiring sometimes having to retell my story. On the other hand, the more I tell it, the more I discover different things about myself or I realize that the story changes with times, my age, experiences.

Purple Kangaroo: Interesting how fear always seems to get in the way of self-discovery!

Natalie: I was loving your colorful Africans in Paris when I visited you recently. I know what you mean about "longing for that sense of place." I go in and out of that feeling on and off ever since I left Africa when I was 19. Lately, though, when I feel solid or grounded in who I am, the yearning/nostalgia seems less painful.

[Richard Lawrence Cohen]

A lovely post and lots of lovely comments. I have nothing to add! Thanks once again, Tamar.

[barbara]

Each act of writing, it appears for you is a beautiful window of self-discovery. I have enjoyed reading your lovely entries.

As to what constitutes a home, I think the answer is not fixed, but one that changes, as you have shown sometimes moment to moment.