The meaning of Six
On the way home from a softball game last night, I took the train back to Virginia with a new teammate I'd never really chatted with before. We made small talk about our jobs, our neighborhoods, the quirky city that is DC.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Oh, about six years," I said.
"Wow," was his response. Wow indeed. I tell people all the time when they ask how long I've been here, but never before did it make me feel so... rooted.
Six years. It's longer than I spent in Athens, back during my college days. It's longer than I spent in the town where I was born, and even the town after that. In fact, the only place I've been longer than six years is my hometown, Mansfield. It felt weird.
It's felt equally awkward filling out all my information as I start submitting paperwork for school. The "hometown" and "permanent address" questions always give me pause. Yes, I grew up in Ohio; yes, my parents and most of my family still live there; but is it my hometown? Can I justifiably write my childhood address, knowing full well that it will never again be a place I call home?
I guess in these six long years, something strange has happened: DC has become my home. As much as this town frustrates me with its traffic, its snarky commuters and bitter citizens, its narcissistic self-importance--it's also been the place where I've met friends who have become my family, had my heart broken and mended again several times over, where I've figured out who "Sarah" really is and what she really stands for. It's the place where I've found career direction and on-the-side passions.
It's the place where I've grown up.
Looking foward to the future, to Chicago and school, I can't help but feel I'm leaving home all over again like I did 10 years ago when I packed up my room and headed to Athens. Only this time, there's no permanent address to come back to. And that thought is almost enough to break my heart.
Whoever knew I could actually love this stinky little town.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Oh, about six years," I said.
"Wow," was his response. Wow indeed. I tell people all the time when they ask how long I've been here, but never before did it make me feel so... rooted.
Six years. It's longer than I spent in Athens, back during my college days. It's longer than I spent in the town where I was born, and even the town after that. In fact, the only place I've been longer than six years is my hometown, Mansfield. It felt weird.
It's felt equally awkward filling out all my information as I start submitting paperwork for school. The "hometown" and "permanent address" questions always give me pause. Yes, I grew up in Ohio; yes, my parents and most of my family still live there; but is it my hometown? Can I justifiably write my childhood address, knowing full well that it will never again be a place I call home?
I guess in these six long years, something strange has happened: DC has become my home. As much as this town frustrates me with its traffic, its snarky commuters and bitter citizens, its narcissistic self-importance--it's also been the place where I've met friends who have become my family, had my heart broken and mended again several times over, where I've figured out who "Sarah" really is and what she really stands for. It's the place where I've found career direction and on-the-side passions.
It's the place where I've grown up.
Looking foward to the future, to Chicago and school, I can't help but feel I'm leaving home all over again like I did 10 years ago when I packed up my room and headed to Athens. Only this time, there's no permanent address to come back to. And that thought is almost enough to break my heart.
Whoever knew I could actually love this stinky little town.
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