Home Is...

The small Midwestern town that I grew up in, even though I couldn't wait to leave it when I was a teenager.

The big Midwestern city that I've lived in for years, even though I don't even notice its beauty half the time because I'm so focused on getting to work, to the gym, to my apartment so that I can add to my list of things that annoy me (#47: People who sing along off-key to pop songs at the top of their lungs in the middle of a busy commuter train. Britney Spears' music should not be desecrated in that way.)

My dream house, which has a big front porch with a swing that I could sit on while reading books outside in the summer.

Not the tiny studio apartment that I currently live in.

The peace and quiet of my hometown, where I could close my eyes and actually hear myself think.

Not the car alarms blaring, horns honking, loud music playing, people yelling, and me shrieking at my window, "For the love of God, it's three A.M.! SHUT UP!"

The wide streets in my hometown that I used to ride my bike on to get to the ice cream shop or the playground.

The dirty subway tunnels that I walk through or the crowded trains that I ride to get to work, where some people practically tackle each other in order to get seats.

The classrooms where I teach, where several of my students have written on their course evaluations that I seem really happy when I'm teaching. And I am.

Not the classrooms and lecture halls where I attend graduate lectures that I usually only understand 10% of, and where I find myself thinking, Being trapped in an elevator for two hours with the Kardashians, their boyfriends, and their ex-husbands would be less painful than this.

The Harold Washington Library, where there are several floors of books. The first time I went there, I thought, In heaven, there are books. 

Not the libraries at the schools where I've taught, because many of the undergrads think that "Quiet Study Area" means "Talk, Socialize, Update Your Facebook Page Twenty Times Per Hour, and Play Music on Your iPhone without Headphones Area".

A guy who I could trust completely and who would make me think that maybe true love isn't something that only happens to other people.

Not any of the guys I've dated, especially not the one who criticized me for not "fixing myself up" enough for the date or the one who made up a lame excuse to leave early less than an hour after the date started, which made me think, I wonder if voodoo dolls really work. Maybe I could buy one and name it after him.

The pages of my journal and the files that hold my manuscripts in my laptop, where I can immerse myself in the worlds that I've created.

Not the tabloids that over-analyze celebrities' lives and invade their privacy or the reality shows that make it seem like you have to be drunk, stupid, or mean in order to be famous.

The books by good authors that inspired me to write in the first place.

They say that home is where your heart is. I think that your heart can be in more than one place. I also think that home is made up of all the places and things that make you happy, and that help you survive all the other places that you can't wait to get away from.

What about you? What is home to you?