Searching for home

I’ve been struggling recently with the idea of home. Although I have lived in Durango for eight years, I have a complicated relationship with it. How do you define home? Is it the place where you rest from the mental and physical woes of the day? Or is it as real yet ethereal as our intentions and thoughts?

When I was in grade school, I daydreamed about the big cities where my dreams would take me. Three months after finishing college, I scored what I thought was a dream job in New York City within the field that I majored in – photography. Before my plane landed, I secured a bedroom in the house of a friend’s mother in Queens. I was excited to start calling New York home. I felt a sense of pride for venturing out to this place far from home with a purpose that felt so near to my heart.

However, my dream job would soon become a nightmare. My employer was verbally abusive and kept me paranoid at all hours, threatening me with my job if I didn’t answer his late-night calls. I became a hostage to this job, and the price was my sense of self. I no longer felt capable or smart.

After weeks of fear being woven into hope for sticking it out, I gathered the courage to quit. Even though this employer withheld salary for my last three weeks of work, I had a bit of money left from my previous paycheck. I managed to skirt by on $2 slices of pizza, doctored-up bowls of ramen noodles and $5 steamed buns in Chinatown.

I eventually filed a case against my former boss with the New York Labor Department. Three months went by, and I still had not received my last paycheck and I became late on rent. My landlord – my friend’s mom – didn’t speak English but made it apparent through her sharp tones that I was a burden in her home. During this time, I was able to volunteer as an assistant to a portrait and fashion photographer who worked with other queer artists and performers. Although this was an unpaid job, it provided a much-needed reprieve from the toxic environment of my former employer. Lana Del Rey’s first album would play throughout the day, and the busy Canal Street breeze would blow through the windows of the studio. This photographer paid me $100 twice for assisting him during shoots, with each bit going toward my attempt to set roots down.

One late winter afternoon, I was handed a letter that had been torn open by my friend’s mother. It was from the Labor Department. How long had she had it? One week? Two weeks? A month? The anger that rose was washed over by the sense of relief I had holding the check. Utilizing this and some money sent from my mom, I paid the overdue rent and ventured out to seek another living situation – another place to hopefully call home.

I packed three boxes of items and borrowed a dolly to transport them. The apartment I found on Craigslist did not have a bedroom for me, but it was cheap. I was relegated to a futon in the living room, which was right near the bedroom door of my potential roommate. He was a somewhat handsome middle-aged man, but his breath smelt like cigarettes, and so did his apartment.

When I arrived, he was visually upset that I was moving in so late, and it echoed the energy of my ex-boss. I immediately forfeited this living situation and lugged my boxes back to the subway. I texted someone I was seeing at the time, who was in the first year of his master’s program. He offered a place to stay that evening, and I felt so relieved that I didn’t have to bring my boxes into the subway again. “You don’t need to save face – just leave your stuff here until you figure it out.”

Within the week, two other friends provided places for me to stay. I volunteered and applied to as many jobs as I could. After two months, it even started to feel like home. However, I eventually ran out of cash and my credit card was nearly maxed out. I felt like I had given my all. I was drained and ready to go back.

I returned to Farmington, where my mother’s side of the family resided. A week later, I received a message that the Guggenheim Museum was interested in meeting with me for a position. Having spent my last bit of money for the flight home, I couldn’t possibly make it back and declined. It was at that moment that I admitted defeat and started to believe I would not be able to find the career or become the person I wanted.

For the past decade, I’ve continued to unravel the trauma that became so intertwined with how I viewed myself. I mostly stopped doing photography, because I felt betrayed by it. It brought me far from home, far from myself, and I didn’t want to risk going down that path again.

But on the journey back to myself, I am finding moments of knowing who I am. I know the desire to create something beautiful still burns warmly within my heart and has manifested itself in other ways that do not include photography. Even in the writing of this essay, I am tending to the fire, ensuring its flames stay lit until I can make it back home. “Home is a place we all must find, child. It’s not just a place where you eat or sleep. Home is knowing. Knowing your mind, knowing your heart, knowing your courage. If we know ourselves, we’re always home, anywhere.” – Glenda the Good Witch, “The Wiz.”

– Douglas Gonzalez