August 2004

Alex Suha • Home-Home

A 12-inch Oriental man is standing on a table in my mom’s family room at home-home. That’s the place you are from originally (Wheeling, Illinois, in my case), as opposed to the apartment or dorm room that you call home in Iowa City.

Anyway, when I went home-home this summer and saw this strange little porcelain guy, I decided not to ask about him. Turns out, that’s not all my mom bought while I was gone.

"I think I should tell you, there are some cubes in your room, Alex,” Mom says after she picks me up in Iowa City.

The drive home usually contains moments like that. It’s four-and-a-half hours (Wendy’s break included) on I-80 full of mandatory catching-up and conversation. This year I’ve been pretty busy, so I’ve only come home at Thanksgiving and during the winter, spring, and summer breaks—a total of about 36 hours round-trip in the car with Mom. Strange things happen during those drives.

In terms of the cubes, I guess she’s talking about some sort of Wal-Mart storage solution, but I don’t ask.

Then she adds, “Alex, there are also snappers.”

"Do the snappers hold the cubes together?”

"Yes.”

I didn’t ask for cubes or snappers, but by now I’ve learned to make a quick sweep of the house whenever I come home. There’s usually a new footrest, picture frame, or knick-knack floating around somewhere. In return, I brought home a poem I wrote about a rubber stamp.

The ride home is always the start of the weirdness. High school teachers with whom I shared a mutual mild resentment now wish me well and want to know how I’m doing. My friends’ parents use “grown-up” when they talk about me. Even before they know how I’ve changed, what I’ve done, what I’ve learned, they see me as mature. It’s as if, after some vague line has been crossed, I’m now a real person. That’s a privilege I’ve always had in Iowa City, but maybe college kids are better understood there.

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