As is the classic move for most new empty-nesters, as soon as I left for college, my parents were on the hunt to pack up and leave my hometown. West Windsor, New Jersey is a quiet suburb nestled between the bustling cities of New York and Philadelphia, known for its stellar public schools, that one random fake alien invasion, and nothing else. Naturally, as soon as their kids were gone, my parents saw no need to pay the high taxes brought on by the school district and wanted to find a town with a little more action than a couple strip malls.
Coming home for quick weekend trip this March, I knew these would be my last steps in 14 Endicott Lane. The house had already been sold after three days on the market to a budding family looking to settle down. Walking through the front door, expecting to feel the warmth of familiarity, I instead found myself looking around a mysteriously foreign environment. New rugs, new appliances, new countertops, all to impress potential buyers. The walls, once covered in my grandmother’s art and photographs of my sister’s and my first day of school, were now barren and coated in a fresh, sharp-smelling layer of unfamiliar grey. Throughout my first 18 years of life, I would trip over scattered dog toys and spread my textbooks and papers all over the kitchen counter. Now, my house was spotless, free of any sign of inhabitation, and I had to take my shoes off before entering the kitchen.
Walking up the stairs and taking the usual left turn towards my bedroom, I found cardboard boxes, stacked high. Souvenirs from old vacations, trophies, birthday cards and more were stuffed inside, telling a discombobulated story of my life so far. After asking my mom for my favorite white dress that I wore to my high school graduation and being told it was too deeply packed away to retrieve, the message was clear: this was no longer my home. This was just a house, soon to be someone else’s home.
Many, if not most, college students must deal with the realization. For a while, it feels like you are homeless: college is great and all, but your cramped dorm doesn’t truly hold the same place in your heart as your home, but now, your cozy childhood home is just a hollow desert. Beyond the comfort and memories embedded within your childhood home, moving away from your hometown friends can be heart wrenching. Going to school hundreds or even thousands of miles away from them for most of the year is hard enough, and then being told that you’ll have to make an agonizing commute to see them—or not even be within driving distance—can seem almost unfair. Then there’s all the hotspots of your zip code. Although West Windsor might be a lackluster, forgettable suburb, I’ve come to know the place and all its hidden treasures like the back of my hand. The serene, picturesque canal where I logged hundreds of miles; the local pizza shop where I had a couple awkward first dates, always supervised by the owner, who knew the entire town; and the library where I used to sit for hours on Sundays, pouring through cook books, looking for new recipes to try. Then there’s the identity of your home state. I’ve always been a Jersey Girl—swearing a little too much, a little too loud, and not one to mess with. I’ve grown up spending summer days at the Jersey Shore (the shore, not the beach). I’ve always bragged to my college friends that they know nothing about what a real bagel (preferably stuffed with pork roll), slice of pizza, or old-fashioned diner is. I literally do not know how to pump my own gas. I came to college with a dainty charm shaped like New Jersey on a chain around my neck, as it is such a large part of who I am. Now, as my parents cross the border to Pennsylvania, I can’t help but wonder if that part of my identity will become a piece of the past. Almost symbolically, the chain of my necklace snapped.
This weekend, as I took one last hard look at my fortress before hopping in the car, I speculated what it would mean to the next family. How they would decorate it, if they’d take care of the rose bushes behind the patio. I contemplated my many buried pet fish in the backyard, the mysterious hole in the ceiling above my bed, the enormous Rosé stain in the basement carpet after my 18th birthday celebration that I tried to hide from my parents (unsuccessfully). The realization that I was no longer a kid, and there was now a physical barrier between my first 18 comfortable years and the many confusing ones to come was hard to swallow. Nevertheless, I also knew that it was time for 14 Endicott Lane to provide someone else the warmth it brought me. As daunting as it may be, I’m excited for the next chapter of my story, and even to pick up some of the unique Pennsylvania-isms, (are there any?) although I’ll always hold on to my inner Jersey Girl.
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