This must be the place

Due to the COVID-19 outbreak, many students have had to move back into their childhood homes. Without the ability to work or attend classes in our college town, it is not worth it to continue paying rent. It can also be lonesome to be isolating by oneself, without familial support or the resources of a household.

Since I moved out for college almost 3 years ago, my childhood bedroom has served the same purposes as a motel, storage unit, or reststop on road trips. While this house holds my fondest memories of my family and childhood, my bedroom is reminiscent of a high school version of myself, which after 3 years of growth and change, I have become estranged from. This produces a dual sense of familiarity and alienation. From moving in and out several times due to holiday visitations, it feels halffurnished. Because memorabilia from different phases of my life exist next to each other on my walls and shelves, it feels incoherent. While my bedroom currently serves as a safe-haven from a harsh, chaotic world plagued by a pandemic, it also feels uncanny. These artifacts point towards worries that have been resolved, as well as aspirations that were never fulfilled. In this way, it also feels somewhat haunting. It reminds me that the areas in which I invest my emotions, including the people who have my tears and the goals that have my sweat, continually become recycled.

My bedroom also reminds me of the things that have stayed the same. For example, the tinge of eucalyptus scent and the pitter-patter of rats skating across my attic. Sensations of smell in particular can trigger a flood of memories, transporting you back to a different time. Nostalgia for me has always been an unpleasant rather than warm feeling, and manifests through pang-like motions. It reminds me of the anxiety inherent to the passage of time and the constant worry of wasting my youth. It is extremely uncomfortable, but also extremely alluring. Re-visiting old memories, good or bad, becomes a masochistic act.

I wish the concept of “home” could transcend physical space and go beyond the aesthetic, and maybe that will be a milestone in maturity, but through aesthetics is how I learn and feel. Human psychology is oscillating and perplexing, we are constantly disturbed by or overcompensating for the contradictions we hold. This manifests as anxiety. This calls for an identity crisis - if my environment doesn’t align with my feelings, or have any sort of linear relationship, then who am I? what defines me?

During quarantine, I’ve spent a lot of time in my bedroom. Although being confined has made me feel grimy and static, there’s a lot of progress to be showed for. I attribute this space to fostering enormous growth over the past few weeks. I have had to learn how to sit in my feelings, weather discomfort, discern between actual and fake worries, reel myself back in from obsession, dodge intrusive thoughts, and more. Everyday is like the Olympics even with nothing on my google calendar. Recognizing the growth that is taking place without being “productive”, realizing that I will be better equipped than ever to confront the world once this all blows over, has helped me find a deep sense of reward.

Things currently being housed in or outside my bedroom include:


  • An easter portrait of my dog where the leash had to be photoshopped out because he couldn’t sit still is in the background, and the same dog who now has arthritis in his legs naps at my feet. 
  • In my closet, old dance recital uniforms hang next to business attire worn during internship interviews. 
  • A recent, framed art project using organic materials and neutral tones sits against an oversaturated, tacky painting I bought from Z-gallery when I was 13 that covers almost an entire wall. 
  • My brand new nintendo switch that I spent too much money on to play Animal Crossing blocks a framed baby picture. 
  • Textbooks for my college anthropology class are inter-mixed with Katie Kazoo chapter books I read as a child. 
  • A large white board that my mom used to teach Mandarin characters on to me and my brother when we were little. I always complain about how bad my Chinese is. 
  •  My vintage Talking Heads poster that I thrifted from Amoeba, that has been hanging on my walls through out high school, is next to a Clairo tour poster I got from a concert I attended my junior year of college. 
  • An unfinished puzzle that I started but never revisited during quarantine sits on the same table as traditional Chinese go-board pieces that my Aunt and Uncle (who are now estranged) and I used to play connect 5 with. 
  • I love cork boards. It’s a form of collaging. It’s an amalgamation of past selves. My cork board includes a halloween card I received when I was 8, a sticker from a trip to Disneyland, a cash envelope I received on Chinese New Year in 2011, an “I Voted” sticker from this year’s primary election, as well as Bernie 2016 and 2020 memorabilia.



Caroline Cai

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