Marquis
When I got out of college, I got this gig with a
homebuilder. It wasn’t exactly what I
was expecting after dedicating four years of my life to higher education, but
it was enough to pay the bills.
Marginally. As all college
graduates understand, life after education is never as glamorous or meaningful
as you envision it when you are the heat of your idealism. I was a Political Communication major at a
school inside the beltway. I was going
to take that degree to law school, then, with a law degree, I was going to save
the fucking world. Poverty. Discrimination. Inequality.
I was going to fix it all. Then I
took the LSAT. And it made me its
bitch. That’s how I ended up at Marquis
Custom Homes. It was a job. And it was going to pay the rent. And the student loans. That’s what I needed. So I did that.
My time at Marquis was very short. It was also very powerful. I didn’t make it in to law school, the LSAT
made sure of that. But, wow, did I meet
a lot of lawyers. And politicians. And lobbyists. And people with a lot of power who were more
than willing to spend a lot of money on a big house. After all, big houses equate to big power,
and that’s what powerful people want.
MORE! More influence. More image.
More power. I soaked up every
minute of it. Every brush with
celebrity. Every extravagant home. Every glamorous party. Much to the dismay of my hippie parents, one
day, I just stopped caring about social equality, and human rights, and fighting
the good fight. I was way too busy with
other stuff. Like rich people and lavish
parties and open bars. You know, the
important shit.
Well…turns out, as I was in the midst of reveling in the glamorous
life, the housing market disintegrated.
It blew up. It fucking
imploded. No more high profile
clients. No more parties. No. More.
Job. I left Marquis on pretty
uncomfortable terms. And by uncomfortable,
I mean unemployed.
That’s when I left the beltway. No house.
No job. No connections. I swore
I’d never go back.
Holly Heights
I told you that story to tell you this story. Eight years later, I was sitting in the front
yard at Holly Heights with one of the people closest to my heart. There was conversation and laughter and, a
lot introspection. Holly Heights, of
course, the antithesis of Marquis. It’s
simple. It’s subtle. It’s unobtrusive. Holly Heights is humble, quiet and
ambiguous. It is my utopia. And it’s where I sit with the people I love
and talkabout what is important, or maybe what has no importance at all.
So, anyway, there I was in the front yard, sitting in a
plastic lawn chair, drinking wine with a long, lost friend. Long lost friends show up here a lot. I don’t know why. Anyway, we talked and laughed and watched the
birds holler from the tree above. As we enjoyed
a magnificent spring sunset in the West county, I looked across the fence at
the million dollar homes on the other side, and said “By this time in my life,
I never expected to still be on this side of the fence.” Darien looked at me and said “How does the
side of the fence you live on matter?
How does that determine your successes or failures?”
I looked into his walnut eyes, real indignant, quite certain
that I had an answer. Then I looked away
quickly when I realized I had nothing to say.
And I immediately changed to subject.
Music. Movies. Stuff.
Anything would be better than trying to answer the question he had posed. So, I threw the uncomfortable
questions back at him. I glared at him
over my glass of Pinot and said “how did you get to where you are? Why haven’t we ever talked about that
before?”
That was my response to being called out for being blessed,
and insufferable, because of it. D
looked at me again, and said “I really don’t’ want to bore you with all
that.” I was already pissed. He already called me out on my
entitlement. Small talk wasn’t going to
make this any better. And dodging
questions, was only going to piss me off more.
Much to my dismay, this guy is pretty intuitive. He knew that, so he said “I usually don’t
talk about it. Because it’s a long
story.” I glared back at him and said
“I’m your ride home. I’ve got all night.”
Cuba
Not easily susceptible to idle threats, he looked at me and
told a story I will never forget. Ever.
He looked down at the ground first; then, he stared me in the eye and relived
his story. “My dad was a really cool
guy. In Cuba. And he’d always hang out with his friends and
they’d talk a lot. I listened to what they were saying. I’d go
with my dad anywhere. So, one day I rode
a ferry with my dad to go see family. ”
My friend is real careful, even now, about how he describes their travels
that day. As he recounted the story, he
didn’t reveal everything. But he related what was really important. “We were coming back from visiting our family. We were on a boat.” Sounded legit. When I lived in Bellingham, I rode a ferry
every other weekend to go see my aunt and uncle on Bainbridge Island. I got it.
Then he said “the ferry ran out of gas.”
Like it was a teenager burning every ounce of fuel in an old beater, trying to get home after curfew.
What? Ran out of
gas? What do you mean? Boats just don't run out of gas. Then, the magnitude of his story set it. It took a few minutes. I asked him, “Was
that boat hijacked?” He said “eh. Maybe.”
Well, it just happened to be a very politically hostile time between
Cuba and the United States. And whether
that boat was commandeered or not, there was a young boy, alone. By himself.
Adrift. Floating towards the United States. That was 1994. He was fifteen years
old. And alone. Finally, he made it to Florida, with nothing
except two phone numbers and his father’s blessing.
Back at Holly
Heights…
So, today I sat out front, thinking about my journey. I sat
at the wine table and reminisced about the, now, defunct Marquis Custom
Homes. I thought about the days that job
was going to save me. I thought about
the million dollar homes that I admired and coveted. I thought about the lifestyle that I had once
envisioned in my future. Then I
laughed. And I laughed. And laughed….because nothing real happened in
those “homes.” Those Marquis homes weren’t real. Then I thought about my own home, here on
Holly Heights, and I thought about all the love and the reality that has passed
through my threshold in the three years I have been here. I thought about Darien. And how I never would have had the privilege
to hear his story at a ball game or at a concert or on a bar stool. But here, at Holly Heights, he made me a
better person with his honesty. The
people I know the best and love the most never hide who they are here. The strongest people I know let me hold them
close here. And they hold me here, too. I am pretty lucky to have
dodged the Marquis bullet. But the
universe has BLESSED me with this place where there is no hatred. No Judgment.
No facade. It's not a law degree. It's not fighting inequity. It, most certainly, is not a mansion
on a hill, but it’s a humble home. This
is where honest stories reveal themselves.
This is where love is unconditional.
This is where life happens, and if it doesn’t happen here, it’s
revisited here.
-Inner Peas
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