“A home”. Merriam webster defines a home as one’s permanent place of residence (Merriam-Webster). Today, this definition takes on a whole new meaning for many of us as it has come to feel very much as a “permanent” place of residence as we are sheltered in from the pandemic that is striking across the world and for the first time in a long time, our focus shifts from the problems of the outside world to the ones within our four walls. So today the question arises, what is a home? For me, a home was never a singular place, nor was it a luxurious place where materialistic things took up its square footage. Rather, it was the culmination of life and its experiences from everyone that ever walked through those doors that made up my home.
Today, I live at 528 Commonwealth Avenue. It is a 3-bedroom apartment in The Bronx, NY. It is located in an area known as Soundview. It is a 2-family house across the street from the Soundview housing projects. It is an area that has a large demographic of African Americans and Hispanics. There is relatively low crime in the area, but crime non-the-less within small gangs that broke off into separate factions after the fall of larger gangs in the Bronx. The house is broken down into 3 floors. The homeowner and her family reside on the 2nd floor of the house. It is a 4-bedroom apartment with a similar layout to my apartment, with the only difference being the extra bedroom, which is located above their entrance staircase and takes up part of the living room. I reside on the 1st floor, which is a 3-bedroom apartment with the master bedroom (my dad’s room) located towards street side and a spacious living room and dining room. My bedroom is located on the southeast corner in the rear of the house and is about a 16’x18’ space with no closet. Located to the northeast corner is my sisters’ room, which is the smallest room but has 1 closet. The living room and dining room are free game for our German Shepard, Grizzly, and our cat, Tuna. Below us, the homeowners extended family resides in a one-bedroom apartment in the basement.
The house was constructed in the 1920’s as a typical Bronx townhouse. There is not any architect particularly responsible for the construction of my house, rather it was the typical construction adopted by the African Americans and Hispanics that built up and developed the Bronx. It is a brick masonry constructed house, with 2 major renovations within the last 20 years. They both took place under the ownership of the current homeowner, Gina Lucero. Gina and her late father, Alfonso Lucero, purchased the home in 2001 after the fall of the market due to the 9/11 events at a great price. They financed it with the bank and are locked in a low interest rate and mortgage. After the purchase of the home, Alfonso took upon the empty basement and renovated it himself to a 1-bedroom apartment with a separate bathroom which was completed in 2002. The last renovation was in 2018, after the passing of Alfonso, Gina repaired the roof and coated the exposed brick façade with a weatherproofing concrete coating and sky-blue paint.
I have lived in this house for about 6 years now, it is the longest I have ever really lived in one place. I have had the opportunity to experience many places as homes within my short life. Until the age of 3, I lived in a small house in the slums of Ecuador with my grandmother and her farm animals. My parents had come to America when I was born in search of a better life. That house was a basic cement block house with a corrugated metal roofing for rain protection. The floor was the extended dirt from the outside and those animals were my first neighbors. Soon after it all changed to a 6-story building in the heart of the Bronx. Located off the Morrison-Soundview stop on the 6 train. Those days I spent within that red brick building welcomed me to a new world with open arms as its dialect flowed through me through the entertainment presented on the tube and the early rendition of Toby Maguire’s Spiderman blew my mind. That graduation from the kindergarten, C.S. 152, a block away and the welcoming of my sister occurred within those white walls that made up that large 3-bedroom apartment on the 6th floor. It was a place for the first of many, an introductory to life I would say. It was my next home that taught me the first of a different many. Within the 2-bedroom carpeted apartment of a 2-family home, a block away from the red brick building, I learned the joy of learning. New technology emerging and I was caught in the middle of a transition from an era to another. My fascination and appreciation of the world began at that house. How could I forget the joy rides we would take to the park, that was within walking distance? I guess my dad’s excitement for that new car and, most importantly, new possibilities began to show fruition at that house as well. Those smiles in those days were so sweet. In my memory, smiles turn sour and the sun refused to shine anymore. In my mind, worlds crumbled, and walls rose to support a grieving heart. Love became a wilting rose and our next move was the last as a family. On the suburban street of Bouke Avenue, in the Pelham Parkway area of the Bronx, I sat on the sidewalk, blocking out a war inside my home with the silence of nature. And mom, conversations from a couch haven’t ever felt the same, since you looked dad in the eyes and you told him that, “Things would never change”. I know those empty bottles that littered out memory hurt in manners our bodies would never understand, but I think the pain those bottles numbed in his mind were far scarier to exist with. Dad’s gaze demanded respect, and the fear of the silence made him love to shout. Loud enough to knock the lamps and dressers to the ground, and in my memory, I can see the walk out of the front door, that would never be welcomed with a walk back in.
The blur that became the next 6 moves in my life was nothing more than that, a blur. I remember the lonely mornings on my own, guess mom did not include me in her plans post-part. Then I remember the days I welcomed the loneliness as unbeknownst to anyone else, I sat at home in place of my desk at the public school 3 blocks away. Then again, who wouldn’t get tired of 3rd grade after the 3rd school of trying it at. The bullies and low aspirations rotted the system, and I refused to crumble to it. Yet, my religious battle was at its climax. My uncle told me that God walked at my side through the hard times, yet he had died to me a while back and no amount of prayers or tears could bring him back. The carpet at God’s home laid witness to all the times I desperately tried yet was utterly alone and quiet in a room full of screaming people. Neglect and troubled tendencies landed me in a prep uniform inside of my first catholic school. I was an intruder to a holy community, bonds sacred by the previous 8 years together that everyone else has, and disconnected in every way, but something must have struck that high school followed under the same educational umbrella.
For the first time in a long time, a bit of stability was introduced again as my new home began to flourish. Scanlan was a weird name for a home, but I would take anything at that point. “From freshman days to senior ways”, our school song would reverberate off the walls of the gymnasium as I stood on the stage, crowned victor of the make-shift popularity contest of my freshman year. From that moment to the announcement of my name again at the valedictorian unveiling at the last of my senior days, and everything in between marked the span of years that I felt at home. You couldn’t fake the excitement of being one of two people that drove to school, let alone an Acura RSX with all black leather interior to make you stand out. I also could not fake the excitement of my final move during senior year.
This brings me full circle, as I have lived at 528 Commonwealth Avenue ever since. So, the question arises once more, what is a home? In the past, a home was a dreadful place, where no hope seemed to emanate from. It was the hole I saw myself stuck in, yet unable to escape. Today, I have a different view on this. It was every smile hidden within all the frowns, the hug hidden within all the neglect, and the happiness buried under all the pain. It was in those moments that I found my home. Today, my home symbolizes peace, or as close as I could get to it for now. This 3-bedroom apartment houses warriors in their own rights. It houses a war veteran that is going long into their sobriety, a bright aspiring doctor and an architect-in-progress. Today, I am a sponge, absorbent of the memoires, good and bad, and all the better today in my, finally, Home.
