Home

Last night at the Moth Story Hour I learned that next month's theme is 'Home' which is appropriate as we are temporarily (and by choice) without one.

But my story about home would not be about this temporary dislocation because although it is a small irritating burden- there really is no story there.

This is the story I'd tell about home:


20 years ago my husband and I joined the peace corps.  We had recently graduated from college and gotten married and they sent us off to live and work on the small island of Antigua in the Carribean.  Small place- Antigua.  Drive 10 miles in any direction and you hit the sea.  We moved into an apartment in the capitol city and tried to settle in to our new home.  But it was hard.  The people we lived and worked amongst did not immediately open their arms to us- they kept a distance- treated us as tourists who were just stopping by.  On the streets, in the market, on the buses- we were offered tourist prices and tourist comments, even as the days turned to weeks turned to months.

At my school, I was introduced as Mrs. Sage-Martinson.  But I had this little feminist-y heart beating in my chest and the title Mrs didn't sit right with me.  So I went on a quiet compaign to turn the Mrs into Ms.  Change is hard, and my colleagues and students had trouble.  Eventually though it caught on.  Mrs became Ms and I was thrilled.  Only before long, Sage-Martinson got changed to something easier to remember-- into White Lady Teacher.  But at least I was Ms. White Lady Teacher!

But outside of school, change was harder to drive.  Even after going to the same stall in the market time after time, I was given prices I knew were reserved for tourists.  I was touchy about hawkers shouting out to me to buy their wares, and to hurry up before my boat left town. This mistaken for tourists was really a thorn in my side. One day I was on a bus heading toward a beach when the man next to me hds a grand mal seizure.  First thing I hear is "someone move that tourist out the way!"  And I think, Yeah! Move the tourist!  No room for one here in this emergency.  Imagine my surprise when I am lifted up and moved.  Set in the far corner to watch the drama unfold.  The whole bus moves together as if a chorus.  You, FatHead, (name of driver- emblazoned on his windshield) stop the bus!  Windows pop open, women rip open the seizing man's shirt.  You- in the yard, throw me one those limes!  Lime picked, thrown, caught, cut open.  Rubbed on the seizing man (a lime cuts a fever, helps stop a seizure, did you know?  I didn't).  Man slowly recovers, lime thrower is thanked, shirt is rebuttoned, man is caressed.  FatHead told to drive on.  And I cower in the corner- in awe of this community who just helped this man through his troubles- after physically removing me.

Then one day I was walking through the market on my way to the basketball court in the center of town.  I had recently made some connections and had won a place on a women's basketball team.  So there I am  walking through town in my purple and yellow basketball uniform- the team name blazoned on the front- some local bank sponsored us.  And as I pass by a tshirt stall the woman behind the table yelled out for me to get my tshirt- to hurry hurry before the boat left.  What?  What kind of tourist gets off the cruise in a purple and yellow full on uniform?  Sponsored by a local bank?  I look at her, only to have my surprised tripled!  The vendor calling to me was none other, than Mrs. Mathews, the teacher I sat right next to in the staff room during my prep.  So I call back, "No Mrs. Mathews, my boat doesn't leave for a while yet." This stops her and she looks at me close.  Sees me.  Chuckles.  Says, "Oh, it's you Ms. White Lady Teacher."  I walk away, beaming.  Recongized.

And one day- I'm heading toward my regular market stall, hoping to grab some fruit before heading home.  I pick up some grapefruit. "You don't want those. Your husband just bought some." I reach for guavas, "No, he got those too- but he forgot bananas, here take these."  And the price is low, is right.

And one day, I'm riding the bus after work to our new house in the center of the island.  We've only lived there a few days- a hurricane had passed over the island and destroyed our in-town apartment a few weeks earlier. The crowded, hot bus lures me to sleep.  I drift off, jammed between two women who are singing Carribean Queen along with Billy Ocean on the radio.  When the bus stops I jar awake and panic.  Is this my stop??  I start gathering my goods and making noises like I want to get off.  But the women pat me back down into place.  "No no- not your stop.  Settle."  So I settle.  Two minutes later FatHead stops without me calling out.  The whole bus turns to look at me and they smile.  Here.  Here is my stop.  They usher me off the bus.  FatHead does not drive on.  My busmates lean out their windows- they point down the dirt road- the only road in sight.  They smile, nod, "That way honey, that way." I thank them and head off down the road.  50 yards later I look back. The bus is still there.  People are leaning out, pointing to the left- "Turn there honey!  Turn there!  Almost home!"  I smile, wave, and someone gives FatHead the command to drive on.  He does.  I turn left, walk down the lane, and I am home.