The day I moved out of Princeton, New Jersey, I was driving to Maine with my mother and my sister. My mom had put a kid's song's tape into the stereo to keep my sister occupied, and the Banana Boat Song started to play. I burst into tears. My mother, alarmed, asked me what was wrong. Between sobs, I managed to explain that, like the singer, I too wanted to go home. And I didn't have a home to go to.

I've moved around a lot in my life so far, and the times of transition are always hard. Things are different this time around, though, for a number of reasons I suppose. It's just me, not the whole family. I'm older now (I suppose I've always been older each time, but this gap is more dramatic). The big difference that I've run into, though, is the fact that I'm split between two places I can call home. There's home as in the family homestead, where there's a hyperactive puppy waiting by the door of a cluttered duplex, and home as in school, where I share with two other guys a single room that's even more cluttered. There's a place where I am a part of a years-old, lifelong on my part power structure, and a place where I am one among a community of equals. There's a place where I live and a place where I visit. This last difference, for me, is a major one. Going back to see my family over breaks and being a visitor in my own "home" sends shockwaves through the stability that I try to base my life on.

There are many definitions of the word "home." The place where I live is in Vermont. The place where my family lives is in Illinois. I'm not sure what to call the other if I call one "home." Marlboro is much much more than just school to me. And I've established too many roots in Evanston to just toss it away in this regard. I started writing this to find an answer, some kind of completion. It hasn't worked, but I've been able to say what's on my mind, and that's what this site is here for, really. Time was when I came here to reassure people back home that I was fine and to throw out some exotic tidbit of a story while I was overseas. Now my head might as well be overseas for all of its sense of direction, but I really am fine. I just need to find my way home. There are beacons to help me find my way, and I need to reach them and follow their guiding light.

It's a winding road
I've been walking for a long time
Still don't know
Where it goes
And it's a long way home
I've been searching for a long time
Still have hope
I'm gonna find my way home
-"Winding Road," Bonnie Somerville.