On going home

A pricker bush at Winding Hills Park in Montgomery, New York.

When I left New York at 18 in 1988, I was off to college, but I was also searching for a place to fit in.

As I walk in the lush greenness, the familiarity of Middletown, it is not my home. It’s the place where I grew up, the town that shaped who I am today, but it’s not a place where I fit in.

Something happened to my family in the years that I’ve been gone. They’re more conservative. More entrenched in what they are doing. More easily shaped by the words spewed forth on the television or by their friends and neighbors.

They’ve got the car, the house, the kids, the white picket fence, the stability. But none of that was anything I ever pursued. And yet, there’s that non-spoken condemnation and the looks because I chose a different path.

Returning home is always done with mixed feelings. Marian House was there. So was my grandma, Lorraine. Both passed away too soon, but each had profound effects on who I was to become. One taught me to never be ashamed of who I am, to stand up for what was right, no matter the cost. The other was an often silent guide, listening in earnest to my stories, real and imagined, talking to me when I was lonely, teaching me to appreciate everything in my life, from the dirt below my feet to philosophers in my books.

While I love my mom and my family, there’s always something that keeps me from them. They are gregarious, outgoing, enjoy parties, barbecues, and mingling. I see most of my traits in my grandmother. Maybe that’s why I always felt closer to her. It was more than we were both left-handed. My inner turmoil just always seemed to come to rest when I was near her.

Most of this comes form never truly fitting in. It didn’t matter if it was a family picnic or people at school. I’ve always been the one on the outside looking in. I don’t see things the way other people do and that has led to a life of few friends and even fewer opportunities.

So, I thought of going elsewhere to find my way. Nebraska was a place to embark on a new life in a new world, far away from the ghosts of the past. But ghosts have a way of finding you and forcing you to remove them before you can grow.

I thought the University of Nebraska-Lincoln would be the place where I found my way, but it wasn’t. I found acquaintances, but not lifelong friends. I never fit in.

While I enjoyed Lincoln, I rarely enjoyed my time in school. Anthropology wasn’t what I was going to do. I went through the motions anyway. I’d hoped to find something to keep me from going back to Middletown, but things didn’t work out that way.

After spending two years back in my hometown, I was ready to leave. My husband’s desire to return to college and finish his degree was our ticket back to Nebraska. It was home, for a while. Grad school and jobs took us elsewhere, but I couldn’t seem to find connections with anyone. Everyone everywhere had already settled into their lives while I was still searching.

Even here in Scottsbluff, I know people. I don’t have friends that can share my joys. How do you find people who are happy to sit in silence for hours or read books into the night? Who will sit quietly while I write? The things I like, that I enjoy, are solitary.

I don’t fit in. I never have. And I know I will never change. I won’t be someone I’m not because that’s what society expects of me.

I’m still searching, looking to fit in. I’m not sure that time will ever come. As much as I’d like to be in a place with more culture, Scottsbluff is my home for now. It’s where I return when I venture out to learn more about the world, to find something that soothes the ever-restless soul within.

When England wasn’t where he belonged, my husband began his search. We travel the same road together, knowing we will never quite fit in. He will often say to me, “We’re not normal, are we?”

No, we are not. But we’ve got each other. And, right now, that’s enough for me in this small Nebraska town.