In third grade, I remember my class went on a field trip together. I don’t even remember where we went that day, everything was a blur but the bus ride back. It was a hot, hot fall day, I was in the blazing yellow school bus, sitting next to my childhood best friend. Her name was Michaela; she was a chubby, short black girl that always wore pigtails. I remember the bus passing by the entrance of my home. At the time I just moved into the new place. It was an old, white manufactured home, which is the fancy way to say it’s a mobile home.. I thought an ugly house—well I still think it is ugly but it was my home so I didn’t complain (at least as much as I should have).
Remember how people often say that children have no shame? Well, I was one of those kids. Even though I thought my house was ugly I felt no shame in living there, so as the bus passed the entrance of my house I pointed it out to my friend in a small voice because a part of me didn’t want everyone to know where I live, “Hey, you see that,” I pointed to the opening of my neighborhood, “ I live there. If you drive a little more down, you can see my house.”
She looked at me and started laughing.
At that moment I felt what no eight year old child should feel; I felt embarrassed, ashamed, vulnerable, exposed. I felt bare. But I didn’t say anything to her. Instead I just sat back into my seat, waiting till she finished laughing. In that moment, I prayed to every God that would listen to make the bus ride end. To make the day be over so I could go home— to the home I was now ashamed to be living in.
From that moment forward I never really shared the location of my home with anyone. Why would I? To be laughed at again? No thank you. I went the rest of my elementary school life without anyone knowing where I lived except Michaela, the one girl who laugh at me, when I showed her where I live, who eventually moved away after the third grade.
In sixth grade, I was riding the late bus home with my friend Kimberly, who was sitting next to me. Kimberly was a chubby, tall, olive toned hispanic girl with long hair and glasses— someone truly nice to everyone. She made me feel brave. The bus passed by the entranced of my neighborhood. Even though I hadn’t known Kimberly for a long time I felt like I could trust her. I think it was something about her smile or the way her eyes look kind when she’s happy, just something about her. I was brave. I pointed and said the same thing to Kimberly that I said to my third grade best friend.
“Hey, you see that,” pointing to the opening of my neighborhood, “ I live there. If you drive a little more down, you can see my house.”
She looked at me wide eyed.
But this time it was different, this time I feared for my life. I didn’t want her to laugh at me, I didn’t want her to judge me for something that was way out of my control. But instead she said, “Dude, really! My cousin lives there.”
Then she when on talking about her cousin. We started arranging sleepovers and getting all excited like eleven year-olds do. I was so happy that day. In sixth grade, Kimberly and I would always stay after school and ride the late bus home almost every day. We also had a great relationship with our bus driver. His name was Mr. McNeil, a funny, sarcastic, cool, tall dude in his early 50’s. Kimberly and I would always sit in the front to talk to him and socialize. One time there was an awkward silence on the bus and coincidentally we were also passing by the entrance to my neighborhood. Kimberly since she had nothing else to do with herself so she pointed out where I live to Mr. McNeil.
“Hey, look that’s where Halie lives!”
Now who does this girl think she is, sharing personal information about me to other people?! I tried to stop her but I was too late. Luckily, Mr. McNeil wasn’t paying attention, much to my relief. But Kimberly, back then, didn’t know when to stop. Every single day we passed the opening to my house she would pointed it out to Mr. McNeil.
Eventually one day Mr. McNeil was bound to pay attention to Kimberly. And sure enough, my biggest fear arrived. The bus ride started out normally. On the bright yellow-orange bus, all the windows were open bringing in all the warm air and noise from outside. I still remember sitting in one of those uncomfortable seats with one foot in the aisle grabbing on the back of the seat in front of me when he asked: “Is that where you live?” he pointed. I shyly nodded, “Let me ask you this one thing,” he began, “Does your house keep you warm in the winter?”
I had no idea where this was going but I confusingly answered, “Yeah.”
Then he looked at me like I had just committed the greatest sin of all and by me I mean at the road, in front of him because he was driving. He wondered out loud, “Then why are you embarrassed then? If it keeps you warm during the winter!”All I did was shake my head at him in response thinking, he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t have to live there. How would he know anything?
It turns out he knows a lot. Why should I be embarrassed of where I live? Why should I care what other people think of my home because believe it or not we’re not here to please anyone. It is, what it is. I am proud to live where I live because there are some people that don’t even have a roof over their heads and I do. I shouldn’t complain about something I have no control over, instead I should be grateful because I at least have something. Now when people ask me where I live, I say what the major roads by my house are and I tell them that it is a trailer. It is what it is; I no longer was going to try to sugarcoat it because I have no reason to. What are you going to do to me? I have no reason to be ashamed. I’ll say it again. I live in a mobile home.