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Monday, April 4, 2011

Two Houses are Better Than One

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My annual fear of flying started to build after I was nine years old. Once on the plane, I would hastily strap myself into the uncomfortable chair with a huge silver buckle that seemed the same size of my head. As a nervous kid, I’d then fiddle with the air conditioning vents, or anything else I could focus my attention on. I’d gulp my already eaten lunch back down my throat as the plane would speed down the runway at 300 miles per hour. Eventually, when the plane would reach altitude of 30 thousand feet in the sky, the horrific feeling of confined air pressure would burst inside of my ears leaving me in agony. At this point in the trip, the same thoughts usually plopped into my mind every year,” In a couple of hours, I’ll be in my place. Hang in there, Ty.” What kind of place, do you ask? Well, it wasn’t just one place. For me, there were two important places I journeyed to back and forth annually; my divorced parent’s homes. Eventually, I grew to respect traveling to those two places because the two houses were both separately unique, and they both had different emotional effects that I learned from.


At first, I was angry when I read the dreaded words “joint custody” on the divorce papers. I couldn’t comprehend the fact that I went from sharing a house with two parents to inconveniently flying two thousand miles back and forth from Florida to Texas just to see them equally. When I turned nine, the legal system forced me fly from state to state every other month against my will. It was hard at first, but eventually I realized that it was for my own good to have a variety of homes. Right away, I noticed that my mother and father were very different, and it showed by the way they separately lived.


My mom resided in a tiny two bedroom house in the urban city of Hollywood, Florida. Its outside walls were painted mustard yellow, and gloriously green palm trees with freshly grown coconuts hovered atop the Spanish influenced shingled roof of the structure. In the backyard, a lazy canal peacefully flowed within itself while Muscovite ducks sat in the shadows formed by the huge tropical trees. The outdoor part of the property was truly welcoming, and the inside of the house had the same effect. It was small, and cluttered with furniture, but it was also cozy. Our baby pictures hung in wooden frames along the hallway which lead to the bedrooms. My room at a glance was small, but was individualized. My toddler scribbled crayon pictures hung above the pillow covered bed, and the warm tones of red and yellow (my favorite colors) accented the upholstered curtains and bedspread. My mother’s maternal instincts made an affectionate attempt to make the household “feel like home”, and I felt comfortable because the house seemed to be a place I could unconsciously relate to since it was focused so much on me.


My dad’s house was the complete opposite. His nine bedroom mansion in Fort Worth, Texas seemed cold, and unfriendly. On the exterior, the house was surrounded with neatly trimmed grass, perfectly straight cut hedges, huge brick walls and monstrous windows which enforced the conservative look of the property. The white carpets in the dining room looked as if they had never been walked on. The abstract pieces of art scattered around the living room gave a museum like effect. Black table tops and marbled floors led up to the bedrooms on the third floor. And to make matters worse, my father’s personal decorator had filled my room with as much frilly lace and pink polka dots as humanly possible. There were fake flowers near the sink and crisp towels hanging in the bathroom. There were no toys, no pictures, nothing I could call my own. I couldn’t grasp the unfamiliar surroundings as “mine” unlike the way I did at my mom’s house.


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I began to perceive at a young age, the very obvious differences between the two houses. Later on, I began questioning why they were both so diverse. My parents equally seemed very happy, yet their lifestyles were so different. Common of kids, things I didn’t understand were disconcerted from my mind.


Years later as an independent seeking teenager, the issue came up again. I still couldn’t understand why my parents were so different. I asked one of my role models for an opinion, and they said “A happy life is one which is in accordance with its own nature.” That’s when it all started to come together.


I researched back to my parent’s history. My mother came from a very artistic, friendly, and wealthy family. Growing up, she was taught good value, and how to care for people in a loving nature. My mom tried to teach the same moral code to me, as her child. Visually, she portrayed her tender emotional ethics through her home by displaying what she thought were amorous and affectionate items such as pictures of her children. Since she instilled these types of characteristics in me, I could easily connect to her type of atmosphere.


Antithetically, my father used his house as a place of stature. Unfortunately, growing up in poverty throughout his whole life forced him to become obsessed with money and material goods. As a teenager, he vowed to himself that he would work hard as an adult, and be financially stable so he would never go through the fear of having nothing to eat, no clean clothes, or the ridicule of wealthier children. As an adult, he became the head business man of his own corporation. He proposed his house as a symbol of accomplishment. His fancy sculptures and paintings, and expensive computers, TV’s, armoires, and fine china were all part of his way of showing that he was financially secure, he was in control of his life. As a child, it was hard for me to relate to that type of environment due to the fact that working for what I wanted and earning money wasn’t part of the every day life for a nine year old. Unlike my father, I knew more about love than I did about money, and that’s why I didn’t feel my sense of place at my father’s house until years later.


That same role model who helped me as a child gave me great advice once again, later on. ”The work of an individual still remains the spark that moves mankind forward.”


I learned that life is about working for what you desire. Working to accomplish, like how my mother worked to achieve the goal of learning how to love, and understand. I also learned the importance of setting goals like how my father did when he vowed not to live in poverty as an adult, and later on worked to accomplish that goal by starting his own multimillion dollar business. It was the spark they obtained which led them to their sense of place which helped me find mine. I can finally understand how I learned from the physical aspects of my parent’s houses, and the emotional effects as well. Because of this, I have found my very own sense of place in life as an adult.





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