Mold and Moving
The last four months have been the most stressful of my life. It’s culminated in an October where we’ve had to move from the rental home that we’ve loved and our daughter’s grown up in. Mold. Parts of our family unit stopped being able to breathe at night and in the house. The scary lingering of mold spores meant we had to divest of much of our furniture and possessions. Not sure where to go, trying to reach a settlement with the owner while feeling very unsettled in ourselves, and worst of all, fearing that we had to say goodbye under sad circumstances to a house and area we had grown to love.
When we moved here, we were fleeing an underwater mortgage post-financial- and housing crisis. Stress had layered on stress and our family, new kid only a little more than a year, had to get out of our first beloved home, the one we owned in the town where we taught. This house was a refuge. Larger than we thought we could get, a rent that we could afford despite my graduate student’s poverty, walking distance from a great library and downtown, every bit a dream house for us. We could not imagine leaving it.
Suddenly we had no choice but to.
Instability and Schooling
Somewhere along the way of taking time off work, bleaching all the non-porous things we determined we could take with us, shuttling to and fro from my blessed father’s house far several towns away and our vacating house, we forgot to attend to my daughter’s second grade homework the way we normally did. She didn’t do great on a quiz. Didn’t do horrible, but didn’t do great, given all the instability. It was a reminder, just how this tiny instability– we are relatively well-off, and most importantly have very generous and resourced friends and family to hold us up and help us– could so drastically change a kid’s school experience. How much more those kids for whom ongoing instabilities compound their challenge week upon week, year upon year.
It makes me all the more awed and moved by the kids and families I’ve taught, whose “instability” became a norm. Separated by immigration policies. Captive to the criminal justice system. Shaken by violence. Tense with economic insecurity. And yet these kids, while stress ate their edges, did not lose their hearts, their hopefulness, their longing for actualization, their ambition to do good. Their families persisted too.
While we were unloading our home of furniture, a friend helped us locate a refugee family from Southeast Asia who was happy to receive some of our beds, shelves, and chairs. Their circumstances considerably different– our new rental equates to the size of maybe three of the four small homes their lived in, four full families, maybe five or six times the number of people in our little trio. The kids played outside, looked with curiosity at what we brought, clearly looked out for each other like family. They’d traversed the world and left behind all kinds of instability.
I thought about how much we own and how little it means. I thought a lot about what we really need to provide for our kids, and how much we fool ourselves about that.
It’s been painful. But I realize something I’ve been pleading for desperately, for years, now has an opportunity for a pivot, a point of inflection. For years I’ve been caught up in an increasing and out-of-control accumulation and spending habit.
I don’t know much, but I know enough from other addicts of other things that you don’t shed your pathologies so easily. This remains an issue for me. For life.
But I’ve been given an opportunity to clear the decks. This weekend, I have to finish cleaning out the old house. Sell, donate, dump. We have a chance at a fresh start. I’m trying to carry into the new place a sense of that simplicity and freedom. We lack nothing. We’re free.