"Home is the most excellent place of all."
- Neil Diamond

"Home is where you hang your hat. "
- The Karate Kid

"I need you in my house cause you're my home. "
- Billy Joel

"Why says you can't go home?"
- Bon Jovi

September 3, 2007

Today I want to talk about the concept of "home". I think it's an important concept and I think it's something everyone should think about at least once in his or her lifetime. I think it's important because if you don't have a place you can call home you really can't come to rest mentally, physically or spiritually.

What is home?

Home to me is the place where I can feel relaxed and at peace. Home is where you can center and regroup. Home is where everyone knows you. Home is where you recharge. Home is where you sleep. Home is where you are safe. I'm sure that's the concept that Abner Doubleday was shooting for when he came up with a fourth base for baseball. Home base.

One of the biggest scars that I carry with me from my childhood that I carry with me to this day came from my father. In retrospect, I'm sure his heart was in the right place and he was looking to build character lessons in the way Calvin's father did in "Calvin and Hobbes". I'm sure he really had my best interests at heart and perhaps one day, if he's not careful, I'll get even.

I was not a good student.. at all. Not my fault. Really. They didn't know about AD/HD in the 70's. My parents just thought I was lazy, stupid, and insane. Actually, that's not fair. They didn't think I was stupid. I know that because it was screamed at me every report card period from age 6 on.

"WE KNOW YOU'RE NOT STUPID!!!! WHY CAN'T YOU GET BETTER GRADES??!!"

If this sounds familiar, you have my sympathies. My father, who studied child psychiatry in college, decided that shock therapy of sorts was in order. So when I was 9, after screaming at me for a letter I got from one of my teachers, told me that if I didn't study hard, I was going to be a bum and live on the streets. Okay, hearing that at age 9 was hard enough. However, my father had more plans. It seems that he wanted his point brought into sharp relief and decided that I was not going to go to school the next day. Instead, my father was going to take me to New York and after lunch take me down to the Bowery, downtown and look and observe homeless people, bums, and vagrants. I was lucky, believe it or not. Initially, his first plan was to leave me there by myself for an hour, then come back for me. My mother stopped him and settled for him to take me there and show me some of the missions and the homeless in the area.

Thanks, Mom.

Mom teaches preschoolers and toddlers as a profession. My father went into marketing research. It's nice to know that one of my parents got something out of child psychiatry. To this day not only can I not be around homeless people, but the very concept of being homeless terrifies me. It has shaped every decision I've ever made as a teen, a college student, and as an adult.

People ask me if I have issues. Yeah, I do. It is unfortunate, too. Because I believe that the concept of homelessness is so insanely hopeless and that I know that it's impossible to eradicate, I don't even bother to do anything about it.

Homelessness keeps me from sleeping when my checking account is too low. Homelessness keeps me on the safe and boring road. Homelessness had kept me from taking the risks that a normal person would take in the stock market. Homelessness has kept me from taking that final step into the next level. Combine that with the never ending playback that happens in the head of every Adult AD/HD case, it can make you crazy.

However, aside from having my self esteem shattered on a daily basis during my Freudian years, my parents provided me with food, an education (in a private school, no less), a silver spoon, and.. a home. My parents still live in the same house I grew up in. They've remodeled frequently but the feelings I have for that place remain unchanged. It was my home. It was the place I ate my dinners, slept, fought with my sisters, played with my friends, and had all of my Christmases and holidays. That place is one of the places I sometimes consider home.

Incidentally, my parents have made every effort to make certain I don't call that place home. Upon my leaving for college, my room was made into a guest room. Every bit of personal markings I had in that room were boxed and put into the attic. When I graduated college, my parents charged me rent until I moved out.

I ask myself if other parents do this nowadays to their kids. I don't think they do. However, after six months of working at my first job on Wall Street, I moved into the Pallus Hook area of Jersey City with a friend of mine from college. My new apartment became my home. I loved my view of the World Trade Center and would go to the pier often to sit and enjoy my view and make that my new home.

On the seventh month, I lost my job. My unemployment was just enough so that I could pay my rent and slowly starve. I was petrified and thought that my father's prophetic words of me ending up as a bum would come true. I swallowed my pride and wound up working for my father in his company for a few months until I could get my next job. The one I stayed at for fifteen years.

When people talk to me and ask me why I push myself so hard and get exasperated with my own failures as well as not celebrate my successes. I tell them that story. I tell them exactly how crippling AD/HD is and how near impossible it is to get around without therapy, self made or otherwise.

Once again, it is homelessness - not having a home, not to be safe or secure and having no place to recharge.

Home is your center. Home is where you feel safe. Now, I ask you, "Do you think I have a problem with George W. Bush and "homeland" security?" The thing I could identify as part of my first home was destroyed before my very eyes. And I sit here as a tax payer as billions of dollars are scammed out of us in the name of Halliburton and patriotism while NOTHING is done.

I want to stress this - I'm not afraid. I'm angry. However, this is not the tirade I want to do today. What I want to talk about, again, is the concept of home.

When I think about home now, I think about the time I spend with my wife. I think about sitting here in the privacy of my own house while I type up politically controversial statements and I celebrate the fact that Alberto Gonzales and John Ashcroft are no longer Attorney Generals. I can look upon my book shelves and know that I can read my own books and watch my own DVD's and when night comes I can sleep in my own bed. And when I eat the dinner I cook that I can enjoy the company of my dogs. I can enjoy the feeling that I am happy where I am and I have created memories that I can take with me until I die. It is where I live with my stuff.

And that's home.

Rachel Maddow recently spoke of the new state song that Bon Jovi wrote, "Who Says You Can't Go Home". The gist of the song is that he's been all around the world and he still prefers to live in New Jersey. And I can agree with that sympathy - even if no one else can. I also look at New Jersey as my home. Although I've worked in New York for most of my life, I've always lived in New Jersey. New Jersey is my home. It does not matter if I'm in Howell, Freehold, Hoboken, Secaucus, or Jersey City. To me, it's home. It is the dividing line between work and pleasure. New Jersey, the butt of this nation's jokes despite the fact that we have the finest educational system in this country and can count our own votes properly, is where I can hang my hat. People know me in Monmouth, Ocean, Burlington, Bergen, and Hudson Counties. I can walk into my local Barnes & Nobles/Starbucks in Freehold and know that I will get my Venti Soy Latte and be able to make conversation with Mary, Rita, or Becky. Home was when I lived in Hoboken and could go to O'Neal's and the bartender would have my Guinness poured before I could sit down.

Home is where they know you.

Home even to a lesser degree was where I worked. Eight to ten hours a day, I met with people in the same place. I spoke to these people and could sit at my cubical knowing that that was my "home base". I could be reached there. I could make phone calls and send e-mails there without people asking suspicious questions. People could walk into my cubical and expect to see me there. And if someone else was there, others would ask questions.

Ever notice when a new guy moves into the cubical or house that used to belong to someone else that it doesn't seem right? Did you ever find yourself saying, "Yeah, it's the new people who live in the Jones' house" or "She's now working in Jim's cubical." The people are new but the imprint of the people who lived or worked there remain for now. It's no longer their home, but now it's someone else's. And, in time, it will be the new person's home without reference to the old person.

It's not just where we are but what we leave behind. This is why I really believe what paranormalists say about ghosts. It is the imprint that resonates with a person in a house or a business sometimes remains. I know that there are places that will remain active after we die. Places like this house or my next one. Places where I created memories and loved my family and pets. People scoff at the concept that pets can't be ghosts. Pets love their masters unconditionally. Why wouldn't they stay around? It is their home as well. This is where they had their best time.

When I returned to St. Peter's College, my old alma mater, last time to pick up my transcript, the place I had considered home for four years had changed completely. The dormitory had completely changed, as well as the cafeteria, and the office where I was president of the drama club was now full of old costumes and old equipment. It was hardly the place where I had produced plays, studied, drank, and played poker. The concept of home for that place was gone. The old bar I went to was closed. The only place that was the same was the quadrangle where I sat and rested and spoke with friends. That was a place I could not go home to. It had moved on and I had moved on. My memories are in my head and it's where they should stay.

There's an old saying that goes, "Home is where the heart is." It's a saying that has never lost meaning and gains truth as time marches forward. Home is where you invest part of your soul and know that when you come back for it, it's there waiting for you. With luck, there are people there to keep it safe while you’re away and are good stewards to it. Home is where you are loved and can love back. Home is more than where you sleep and eat. Home is where you know that the only people who can hassle you are the ones you let hassle you.

And home, eventually, is where you can rest in peace.

NB - Before you get the impression that my parents are just monsters, they are not. I was the eldest and that's the child that they play trial and error with. My parents love me and will always have something for me to eat anytime I come over. I never went to bed hungry and I always had a roof over my head. We went on vacation every summer and my father was a scout master. And if all hell had broken loose, I'm relatively certain that they'd be there for me.

Relatively certain.