My home is defined in the words of the southern country gentleman who said, “My home is where I is, at the time that I is livin’ at the place I is”.
It is just another room in H dorm, with its yellow, map covered walls, its brown wooden planked floors, facing the white hole-filled ceiling, from which hangs an obscure light fixture.
Everything I own is crowded into its small nine by twelve living area, besides my roommate and I. Our two desks are placed back to back, causing them to jut awkwardly from the wall into the middle of the floor. The bookshelves are arranged in the center of the two desks, thus serving as partitions, which helps keep peace during study hours.
As I sit laboring at my desk, there is to my immediate left a fairly large bookshelf. It is stacked with letters, papers, and many books, some being covered with dust which has blown in through the blue curtain-arrayed window at my back.
Running parallel with the wall to my right, decorated with long borrowed curtains, are the wardrobes – into which are pigeonholed the many articles of haberdashery. At the edge of the wardrobes, snuggled against the far eastern wall, which it shares with the door, is the bunk bed covered with unmatched spreads and un-hung clothes.
Yes the room is crowded, dusty, and without the modern touch; but it is still home, for it is where I is.