Home Is Where My People Are: The Roads That Lead Us to Where We Belong by Sophie Hudson Page A
Authors: Sophie Hudson
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rebellion to a minimum because I didn’t want anybody to talk about me, but I was way more interested in a good reputation than a transformed heart (this is a pattern that I would not lay down for several more years). And I certainly didn’t have enough sense to “invest” in my family relationships —because as far as I was concerned, the world sort of revolved around me. I went to Atlanta for purely selfish reasons: I thought it would be a whole lot more fun than spending the summer in my hometown. It never occurred to me that it would be a great opportunity to spend time with my relatives. Even after I got there and the “fun” part started to seem less likely, I just figured that, worst-case scenario, I was going to spend the summer balancing bank statements and talking to clients and figuring out all the features of WordPerfect.
And I did do those things.
But I also learned lessons I never expected. For one thing, I learned that Paige, Sister, and I share way more than a bloodline. I learned that, oddly enough, all three of us are people who are willing to literally walk on each other’s backs to guarantee a good “pop” (maybe that’s why I’m typing this twenty-six years later and wondering what that nagging pain in my neck might be). I learned that even if you graduated from high school more than a decade apart, Boz Scaggs and James Taylor will always provide some musical common ground. I learned that a whole host of life’s problems can be solved with chips, cheese dip, and people who love you sitting around the table.
And I learned that even if Sister and Paige weren’t related to me, I’d still think that they were two of the most kind, creative, hilarious people I’d ever known.
Because when I got to Atlanta, they were my family.
But when I left Atlanta, they were my friends.
I’d call that a win.
A T THE BEGINNING of my sophomore year at State, I would have told you that I was full to the brim in the friends department. I’d found my tribe, so to speak, and one of the people in that tribe was Daphne, a beautiful, hilarious, athletic girl from Starkville whose skin and hair were a point of borderline obsession for my mama. In fact, I couldn’t even mention Daph’s name without Mama saying, “Oh, Sophie. I do know that she has THE MOST GORGEOUS skin and hair I have ever seen. She is just STUNNING.” Mama was right. She was also thrilled when I told her that Daph and I had decided to room together our sophomore year, and I think she secretly hoped that living with Daphne might reinforce Mama’s lifelong instruction to take off my makeup every night before I went to bed and maybe even to exfoliate regularly.
Daph and I lived on the south side of campus in a huge dorm that we wholeheartedly believe is responsible for at least 95 percent of the sinusinfections we’ve enjoyed since we left it. Mold spores aside, though, living with Daph meant that I spent a good part of every night alternating between hysterical laughter and deep, philosophical conversations that made my head hurt (this is still my preferred structure to daily life, by the way). When Daph wasn’t around, I’d devote thirty or forty-five minutes to playing Whitney Houston’s “One Moment in Time” over and over at an annoyingly high volume, and inevitably I’d walk down the hall to find some company. My Myrtlewood friend Marion and her roommate, Wendi, were two doors down, and their room was always an excellent home base before we’d make our afternoon rounds. Having so many good friends on the same hall ensured that there was always somebody to talk to, and even though my classes were more demanding and my schedule was less wide open than it was during my freshman year, I thrived on that near-constant social interaction.
(This was a few years before my inner introvert very timidly raised her hand and then politely asked if we could please figure out a way to find a little more quiet in the day-to-day.)
(As
And I did do those things.
But I also learned lessons I never expected. For one thing, I learned that Paige, Sister, and I share way more than a bloodline. I learned that, oddly enough, all three of us are people who are willing to literally walk on each other’s backs to guarantee a good “pop” (maybe that’s why I’m typing this twenty-six years later and wondering what that nagging pain in my neck might be). I learned that even if you graduated from high school more than a decade apart, Boz Scaggs and James Taylor will always provide some musical common ground. I learned that a whole host of life’s problems can be solved with chips, cheese dip, and people who love you sitting around the table.
And I learned that even if Sister and Paige weren’t related to me, I’d still think that they were two of the most kind, creative, hilarious people I’d ever known.
Because when I got to Atlanta, they were my family.
But when I left Atlanta, they were my friends.
I’d call that a win.
A T THE BEGINNING of my sophomore year at State, I would have told you that I was full to the brim in the friends department. I’d found my tribe, so to speak, and one of the people in that tribe was Daphne, a beautiful, hilarious, athletic girl from Starkville whose skin and hair were a point of borderline obsession for my mama. In fact, I couldn’t even mention Daph’s name without Mama saying, “Oh, Sophie. I do know that she has THE MOST GORGEOUS skin and hair I have ever seen. She is just STUNNING.” Mama was right. She was also thrilled when I told her that Daph and I had decided to room together our sophomore year, and I think she secretly hoped that living with Daphne might reinforce Mama’s lifelong instruction to take off my makeup every night before I went to bed and maybe even to exfoliate regularly.
Daph and I lived on the south side of campus in a huge dorm that we wholeheartedly believe is responsible for at least 95 percent of the sinusinfections we’ve enjoyed since we left it. Mold spores aside, though, living with Daph meant that I spent a good part of every night alternating between hysterical laughter and deep, philosophical conversations that made my head hurt (this is still my preferred structure to daily life, by the way). When Daph wasn’t around, I’d devote thirty or forty-five minutes to playing Whitney Houston’s “One Moment in Time” over and over at an annoyingly high volume, and inevitably I’d walk down the hall to find some company. My Myrtlewood friend Marion and her roommate, Wendi, were two doors down, and their room was always an excellent home base before we’d make our afternoon rounds. Having so many good friends on the same hall ensured that there was always somebody to talk to, and even though my classes were more demanding and my schedule was less wide open than it was during my freshman year, I thrived on that near-constant social interaction.
(This was a few years before my inner introvert very timidly raised her hand and then politely asked if we could please figure out a way to find a little more quiet in the day-to-day.)
(As
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