Home Without a Door
I grew up in suburban Massachusetts, in a middle-class
family, in an average, three-bedroom home. And because I had two parents and
two brothers, I had my own room from an early age. It never occurred to me
during those years that I was the only person in the family with that
privilege.
In college, of course, the complete opposite was true. Even
during the years that I lived in off-campus apartments, I shared bedrooms with
others. And although I loved that experience most of the time—having roommates
was almost like having sisters!—it occasionally wore on me. Sometimes, I longed
for my own space.
After graduation, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my
life, so I got a waitressing job and went back to my parents’ house for a few
weeks. But it didn’t take long to realize I wanted more freedom. More
excitement. And all the good jobs seemed to be in the Boston area.
But I had no experience, and again, no idea what I wanted to
do, so I answered one of those ads in the paper, looking for people to canvass
door-to-door for a nonprofit agency. It seemed pretty clear that the pay
wouldn’t be great, but I’d heard that you could survive on the salary if you
were good at what you did, and eschewed an extravagant lifestyle.
So one day, I got on the bus, rode into Boston, had an
interview, tried canvassing, got hired, went to a party, and ended up crashing
at a coworker’s house. It was a big day! I quickly found out that many of the
people who worked for the nonprofit shared houses or apartments with each other,
and in many cases, those residences housed many more individuals than the
landlord knew about. When I awoke in the morning on a couch, there were several
other people sleeping in the living room with me, some on chairs, some on the
floor. Yes, I’d called my parents the previous evening to let them know where
I’d be, and no, they weren’t very happy. All that college tuition, and I was
taking a job that involved going door-to-door, asking people for money?
During that summer and fall, I lived in a couple of
different (very crowded) houses. None of them ever felt like home, because I
was never an official resident, and I never had my own room. I’d make an agreement
with one of the tenants to pay a certain amount of cash each month, and in
return, I’d get to sleep on a sofa or futon.
I can’t recall eating a single meal in any of those
buildings. Lunch was eaten at sub shops on the job, breakfast generally skipped,
and dinner would usually involve nachos or pizza at one pub or another. I’ve
written plenty of blog posts about the eating disorder that plagued me for
about fifteen years, and that period of time was right smack in the middle of
it. However, because I had almost no privacy, I didn’t have a lot of
opportunity to binge and purge, except on weekends, when I’d sometimes go and
stay with my parents.
Then, in December of 1986, the landlord who owned the house
I was living in at the time informed the tenants that they’d need to leave at the
end of the month. I never heard the official reason, but can only imagine it
had something to do with the fact that there were about eight people living in
a two bedroom apartment.
I wasn’t sure what I’d do, but I didn’t really worry until
we really got kicked out. For about a week, I drifted around, sleeping on one
couch or another. Then, one day in the office, a canvasser told me that she and
her roommate—who lived in Winthrop, MA—were hoping to get a third roommate to help
with the rent. I had no idea where Winthrop was, but she assured me it was an
easy commute from Boston, and asked if I’d like to see the place. Of course I
did, but when we got there—on a frigid, snowy night—I saw that the “room” they
were renting wasn’t actually a room, but a subsection of the living room,
cordoned off by a flowered curtain. “It’s sunny in the daytime,” the woman
pointed out, “and the other bedrooms are in the back, so it’s actually kind of
private.” For rent, they were asking $250 a month.
There was a futon-like piece of furniture already in the
room, so the woman suggested that I try sleeping there for a night to see if I
liked it. And how could I not? It was affordable; there were drawers where I could
put my clothes (I’d been living out of a duffle bag for months); across the
street was a Laundromat; we could make coffee and breakfast in the galley
kitchen. And to top it all off, the next day, as I opened the door to head for
the bus stop, I saw the ocean. Right then, I knew I was home.
As it turned out, Winthrop remained my home for many years
to come. A few months after moving into that apartment, I moved to a different
one—and got my own door!—but I’ll never forget the peace I felt sleeping in
that small section of the living room with the flowered curtain separating me
from the rest of the world.
Mary Rowen loves music and is a
Boston area mom to teenagers. All of her novels focus on women of various ages
growing up, or at least becoming comfortable with themselves. Her two novels, Living by Ear and Leaving the Beach are both available on Amazon and by order
at most bookstores.
www.maryrowen.com
1 comment:
Thank you for having me as a guest, Arleen!
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