The Final Countdown; or, A Vagabond Heart

"WALKER PERCY ONCE wrote that at a certain point in his life a man draws strength from living in some authentic relationship with the principal events of his past. I have often pondered what it was that brought me back to stay [in the South]. I am forever drawn to the textures, the echoes, the way things look and feel, the bittersweet tug of certain phrases: 'We crossed the river at Natchez.' The South is a blend of the relentless and the abiding for me, and an accumulation of ironies so acute and impenetrable that my vagabond heart palpitates to make sense of them."   Willie Morris, from the essay "Is There a South Anymore?" Southern Magazine, October 1986. 

My favorite memoir is from fellow Mississippian Willie Morris. North Towards Home tells of Morris' childhood in Mississippi, college life in Texas, and life as a writer in New York City---and all in an attempt to find "home."  When I read his book in college, I couldn't help but feel it spoke to me. And I love his term "vagabond heart" in the above essay because it encapsulates how I feel. Morris did some wandering of his own before finally giving in to that tug to return to his native Mississippi, where he died in 1999. 

part of my heart---the Mighty Pearl River, MS

In one of my earliest blog posts, I wrote about not knowing where home is and my forever quest to find it. It's been a quandary as long as I can remember. I was a shy, strange child, and moving from the Delta to southern Mississippi was a rather traumatic experience. I didn't like having to meet new friends. I didn't like change. I didn't like people's prying questions, or having to deal with going to school (I had only attended kindergarten part time), and I remember thinking if I were quiet, I could make myself invisible. It's a trick I held on to for several years, until being part of a community over time made it impossible to do anymore. I was part of something. I had become part of the collective memory of my classmates with whom I attended 1-12 grade. My biggest pet peeve of life in that small town is when certain classmates would like to say, "Do you remember in kindergarten when. . . oh yeah, that's right, you didn't live here then." It was their not-so-subtle way of putting me in my place because I wasn't born there. Maybe this is why I never wanted to stay. Or maybe I just never took root and after reversing my original stance and working hard not to be invisible, realized that to some, I would always be. My hometown is not my birthplace, nor my sister's, nor my parents. Despite living there for twelve years of school and countless years of going back annually, I am in many ways still not "one of them." 

And I am totally okay with that. I love many people there. The adage goes, "Home is where the heart is," but truly, can you aimlessly travel from one place to another, holding those you love close, while knowing they live thousands of miles away and you'll be lucky to see them once a year? For me, yes. For others, not so much. 

These are the things I have tried to explain to many of my friends and even family members who have deep roots and love their towns. They have a sense of place I have never had. 

That brings me to this. We have a pack out date now, meaning that for three days in the beginning of June, a moving crew will invade our house and pack up practically every possession we have. We made the choice when we plunged into this peripatetic life to not put anything in long-term storage. Family valuables we left at home. Years of paperwork we finally shred. Many things---linens, furniture, pots and pans that we have had for the majority of our 24 year marriage---we have finally given away. 

Today we took the ferry over to the airport to pick up our son who is returning from college in Spain. The next time we take that same ferry will probably be when we leave here forever. As we left for the Leeward side and watched people jump off the dock to say goodbye to those leaving island, I wondered, who is left to jump for us? Will anyone come out? Teachers tend to leave the day school is out; we will stay another week, probably. So many dear, wonderful, close friends have already left GTMO forever. There's part of me that wants to sneak over to the other side the night before and stay at the hotel there so we don't have to say goodbye. I always get a little lump in my throat watching people jump and swim out to the ferry, even knowing they aren't there for me.

It's been a great four years, six months, and 22 days in many ways. Despite my whining and complaining at what are truly first world problems (no diet Coke, no eggs, the pool is closed---again), there have been rewards that we have reaped and will for years to come. I'm still a little freaked out when I look back and think that in 2012 we walked away from a house, two stable jobs, friends and family, and a community we lived in longer than anywhere else in our marriage (10 years---and for my husband, the longest he's lived anywhere). We took a leap of faith and I have no regrets. The big stuff for those of us here that adds up to low morale at times is still small stuff compared to some of the big challenges of our life living in Texas.

part of my heart, this crazy, crazy place

I'm hoping my wandering spirit and vagabond heart will find a place to call home once we get to Spain. With a son only a few hours away, and the ability to get on a commercial airplane and get to our families faster from Europe than from GTMO, it's already got some things going for it that we don't have here. I will miss those here who I hold in my heart---and I hope they will take me up on our offers to visit. I don't think we will ever come back here to visit, and knowing we don't really have that option, unlike other places we've called home all over the U.S., makes me a little sad. 

The possibility that we will spend the next 10 years or so in Spain make me very happy. Could this be the place? Or, like Willie Morris, will I one day find that pull to the South so strong that I will want to go back to live? 

It is very possible that in six weeks from today, if all goes as planned, we will leave GTMO forever. How will I feel? Relief? Grief? Sadness? Giddiness? 

Maybe a little of all above? 

In the same essay, Willie Morris also wrote, "To escape the South, however — all of what it was and is — I would have to escape from myself."

The South is my home, who I am. As much as I have worked to lose the accent (some find it charming, but it comes with its own set of detrimental stereotypes), I am a southern girl through and through. However, it is not where I live. A wanderer is what I am. That cliche "citizen of the world" is also me. 

And Spain is calling. Onwards to more purging and packing for the next great adventure of someone consumed with wanderlust. 

read all of Willie Morris' essay here.