Hi guys! This is my finalized version of a creative nonfiction essay I wrote about my relationship with my “home.” I hope you enjoy! ~ Liv
The second yellow house on Conner Court is a castle. These thick walls protect me from swooshing, swaying winds that storm through the shadowy valley my family calls home. The bright purple door welcomes visitors to our front porch once they’ve passed the moat of garden beds, vibrant with fresh strawberries and rhubarb. A canvas teepee sits in the forest clearing west of the castle, and the imaginary aroma from its unlit cobblestone campfire floats through the backyard. This wild yard—brimming with insect life, budding native flowers, and tiny rodents—is where I wander. Searching for treasure, magic weapons, the antidote to my poisons. In the wintertime, the top layer of the snow melts and refreezes strong enough to hold me up, and I dance in the backyard with the lightness of a fairy.
There is magic within these walls, the warm and fuzzy kind that permeates every corner of the house. It shows itself when I sink into the cushiony velvet of my parent’s living room couch, where sleep pulls me under, and I wake to the smell of warm bread fresh from the oven. It shows itself when my skin sticks to the pleather of the large red bean bag in the bay window, bathing myself in the summer sun whilst snuggling in a blanket. It shows itself in the high-pitched squeaks of our guinea pigs—from their large cage that took up a quarter of our living room—when my mom opened our veggie drawer. In the crisp, fresh well water. In the howling winds of the valley wispings through our window screens and rustling leaves on birch trees outside.
The second yellow house on Conner Court is a sanctuary, a temple to the Christian god my parents bow down to. They adorn these halls with crosses and bible quotes, paintings and commandments. Every meal is served with the appetizer of grace, which must always be consumed before the entree. Each slumber is preceded by a family gathering, a nightly ritual to meditate on whatever is taking up our thoughts, praying for a better day. My parents enforce a strict adherence to the rules set out by their god, although they strangely don’t follow some because “that’s the OLD testament,” whatever that means. No swearing, no using god’s name in vain (yes, that includes “omg” and “jeez”), no words that imply cursing (frick, darn, shoot), no cropped clothing or low necklines. There are a lot of rules they ensure we follow, many of which they don’t even follow themselves. Funny how that works. I thought the saying was “lead by example,” not “do as I say, not as I do.”
It isn’t all rules and prayer, though. Every Sunday we spend hours upon hours playing four-square in the church parking lot, waiting on dad to finish up his counseling and advising. I like Sunday because that means donuts, Kathy always brings donuts to share. Wednesday night bible study is my favorite—we sometimes get to have a Papa John’s potluck, and mom drives us to McDonald’s for ice cream cones before heading home. I like memorizing verses and showing off my recitation of the ten commandments to my parents. I like being the know-it-all in Sunday school. I like being the pastor’s daughter. I felt like someone important.
My brother is caught stealing from the tithe box. I’m banned from babysitting the kindergarteners after telling the kids that god created everything, except for Ants—I created those. My sister refuses to come to church. My dad refuses her refusal. We act normal at church. We sing the songs before heading across the parking lot to Sunday school. We show up and play our part. We say the lines. We memorize the verses. We shake the hands we’re supposed to. He smiles. We’re putting up a perfect performance for them.
The second yellow house on Conner Court is a fortress, its walls standing tall and firm, to both confine those within and bar those without. The walls watch as my siblings and I carefully tip-toe around the house, closing doors ever so gently, making sure our music doesn’t raise to a volume that is noticeable. They watch as my father berates his eldest daughter. How dare she get a snack late at night? How dare she take a shower? How dare she like a boy? How dare she turn into the spitting image of her father during his youth, quick to anger and slow to understand. The walls watch on as his words slowly break her down, as she wilts and rebels, as he spats bible quotes in her face as an excuse for his wrath. They watch as I turn the lock of my bedroom door, hoping it isn’t my room he comes to first when he gets home from work, hoping I don’t have to deal with the poison he spits.
I often wonder what the walls think about my father; what would they whisper to a listening ear? Would they remember the turn of events as I do? Would they be confused that I still love him? That I continue to visit despite everything he’s done? I want them to tell me his cherry, fat-and-happy old man demeanor is actually genuine. Perhaps that’s just how he interacts with people he doesn’t live with. Perhaps it would be different behind closed doors, like it was before. I want them to tell me if he’s actually changed, even if the answer isn’t what I need.
The second yellow house on Conner Court is now as familiar as it is alien to me. On the hot August day, I packed my parents’ Expedition up with all the belongings I thought might be considered mine; I sensed a small hollow forming in my heart; an abrasion that wounded the safety I felt in familiarity. The wound has since scabbed over, but there are still days I long to be back behind those walls.
Despite my previous eagerness to run as far away as possible from them, I find myself being called back. When I visit, however, it is not the same. Of course, it is the same house it has always been, the same orange vinyl wooden floors in the kitchen and downstairs, the same sad-beige mid-2000s carpet that has been stained from all kinds of paint, the same glossy black fridge that hasn’t had a working ice/water dispenser in over a decade, the same eggplant purple front door. In many of the ways that matter, though, it’s not. The walls I was raised in now wear unfamiliar paintings and decor, their eyes boring holes through me as if I’m intruding into their carefully crafted space. The large, retro brown couches have been replaced by angular, modern grey sofas; the TV is as thin as paper and as large as an at-home movie theater; the dishes I grew up with have all broken by now. I no longer know where they keep the kitchen trash can or which closet houses extra towels. The items I forgot to pack when I left for college sit in boxes with my name scrawled in black Sharpie. The landline we used to share has been disconnected for years. I fall through the snow now. My fairy wings have withered. The magic I once knew sputtered out. The walls no longer recognize me.
