A House Is A Building
This past holiday season, I had the opportunity to go “home”; more specifically, I was able to travel back to my hometown of Phoenix, Arizona. The last time I was in Phoenix, my parents separated, I shot my senior capstone film, and my grandmother died all in the course of 3 weeks.
That was over a year ago by the time I was boarding the plan, and I sincerely did not know what was waiting for me when I landed.
I lived in the same house in Central Phoenix from the day I was born until I moved for the first time to Savannah, GA for college. The white, 1300 square foot house at the bottom of North Mountain (and right at the edge of the ghetto) was where all of my childhood, adolescent, and (most of) teenage memories were stored. My elementary school was 2 miles away, and my high school was two blocks away. As I got older, it became Dutch Bros was a 15-minute drive & the art museum was 25. It’s where I learned street smarts, self-awareness, and the importance of calling home when you’re later than expected. Everything I knew and loved about my city was anchored at that house.
My mom bought that house in 1987; she was 25. She was single, had worked 3 jobs to move out of her parent’s house, and was becoming established in the world of fabric. In that house, she became a district manager, had her to-be husband move in & live with her, and brought home her two daughters. Since before I can remember, my mom has always worked over 60 hours a week. She put herself through a bachelor’s and master’s program in 2 years, graduating with a Masters of Accounting in 2007. When my dad lost his job in the 2008 recession, my mother was working as an entry-level accountant and putting in over 80 hours a week. She worked through sexism and ageism, and today, she is an established senior tax manager.
But, my family doesn’t live there anymore. In August, they moved to a much bigger house in the suburbs of North Phoenix in which I stayed during my week. The house is desert brown – if you know, you know – and houses my parents’ separate bedrooms, my sister’s room for when she is home from college, and a guest bedroom. There’s a gravel, open, larger than life backyard which my dog, Toby, spends much time sunbathing and enjoying the dry, Arizona air.
When I arrived to the house, it was – simply put – weird. The quiet neighborhood was off-putting; where are the sirens and screaming from the angry couple at the bottom of the street? The new pastimes of playing pool and going on runs without the fear of being kidnapped were very new concepts for me. The bedrooms that fit larger than twin beds, the barstools at the counter, the distance between my sister’s and my room: there was nothing in this building that even resembled the home I once knew.
And It is beautiful. It’s truly incredible to see all of my mom’s hard work manifest into a house. After so many years of too close quarters, bathroom quarrels, and no auditory privacy, and it was clear to me that this move was exactly what my family needed. There is space to breathe, to relax, to meet, to store, and to house someone if they come knocking on the door. For the first time, I began to see the family I love so much in the same place both physically and mentally.
After a week, it was time for me to go to my home; the 2-bedroom apartment in Atlanta, GA where my dear friends, future career endeavors, and everything I own awaited me. It’s where the monthly dinners are held. It’s where the couches are ready to be crashed on. It’s where the memories I am making on my own rest in the walls, cabinets, and various Christmas lights. It’s my home for now, and I’m the luckiest girl in the world to say that.
A house is just a building. A home is a feeling.
Best,
Lisa Rae Bowman