“Home is where the heart is.”
We take home for granted, sometimes. People forget that home is where we belong. We make up the frame of the jigsaw puzzle; everything else is contained within it. Surrounded by family and loved ones, whether we are having a barbeque or failing our math test. No one is alien in their own home.
When I was younger, I would always go to school in a sweater in the winter season. I wake up frozen, groaning and moaning at the maid. I wrap the quilt around myself and dump it right before I go into my bathroom. I pick out my clothes and wear a sweater or a jacket. The winter morning, however, deceived me. As the sun rose and cooked the earth, the jacket that once brought comfort and warmth is now a burden; wear it and sizzle, or dump it and upset my mother. I would always squeeze the sweeter into my desk, and my mother would always be upset about it.
Seeing as my parents are older, they had eight children. It was the norm back then, as it should be now. I was the youngest of eight children. The special boy that got the long end of the stick. At the age of two, we moved out of our small house into a bigger one. There was more space, the yard was huge. I don’t remember any of the misery of the small house. When I became a little bit older, my Father enlarged the house even farther. I got my own room, my Father paid for a TV. I had it all. After I got my license, I drove my own car, too. Whenever my brothers would tell me about their lives, crowded competition (there were five boys, each two or three years younger than the next). I feel undeserving of all these luxuries.
Soccer was a pastime. Not one that I greatly enjoyed, but everyone else was playing. The ball would be new for a day, two at best. The ball was flat by nightfall. The palm trees pointed that out early on. Makeshift playgrounds and bare feet were the trademark. Playing with my cousins in their yard with interlock as the goal posts. The horizontal one was imaginary, and would be limited by how high that specific goalie could jump. That only means all high balls were synonymous to arguments. “GOAL!” “What?! The ball was too high! I jumped and it was way too far!” It is irrelevant who was on which side, my cousin always won the argument. I don’t think he ever admitted to being wrong in his lifetime.
High school was different back in Oman. The school where I went was an international school; American curriculum, Omani culture. The boys were separated from the girls (most of the time). Being in a boys’ classroom all day long can wire a person to think a certain way, and vice versa for a girl in a girls’ class. To break the seal in senior year and be in a mixed classroom for elective classes was a nice twist. Being new to it, everyone was polite and quite during electives. During other classes, however, the boisterous nature of the males would show. Loud, rude and aggressive, our class was just perfect. Everyone was always one hundred percent macho, all day, every day. You had the roosters. The guys showing off for some attention from the softer gender. Then you had the smarties, off in their corner discussing their politics and economics. I was one of them, and like them, I mostly had no clue what I was saying. On the back of the class were the trouble makers. On their phone, or throwing something down the third floor window. Always up to something. ALWAYS . There can be switches between categories, sometimes. It’s always entertaining to see a trouble maker argue about capitalism versus communism.
Iowans might dread living in a desert environment, but I plead you to try. I am here myself! I have been through both extremes. In our winter the weather is just flawless. It is such a pleasure to stay and freeze in Iowa while the winter days seep away into the heat of the summer. I digress, but my point still stands! Experiencing the summer heat is bucket list stuff. Getting out of the airplane after our summer vacation and receiving a slap of the western winds. Like opening an oven, except you don’t get to eat the cake. The dry air and hot sun make you appreciate the rain and the winter. No one cares about home cooking until they get a scholarship to America. To value it, you must lose it!
Amidst the summer heat and noisy high school students, nothing stands out to me more than my family. Whether it’s playing with the kids or speaking with my brothers, there is always something to do. Everywhere you look there is a face of somebody who needs me. Sometimes for my driver’s license, sometimes for my spare time, and sometimes for my muscle mass (seriously my mom makes me carry her groceries). Home is where the heart it, and my heart is collectively shared by a Father, a Mother, five brothers, two sisters, ten nephews, and eight nieces.
Kinda stings I was so dumb a few months ago. How dare I? If I had to change this assignment, It would look a bit more like this:
We take home for granted, sometimes. People forget that home is where we belong. We make up the frame of the jigsaw puzzle; everything else is contained within it. We are surrounded by family and loved ones, whether we are having a barbeque or failing our math test. No one feels alien in their own home.
When I was younger, I would always go to school in a sweater in the winter season. I wake up frozen, groaning and moaning at the maid. I wrap the quilt around myself and dump it right before I go into my bathroom. I pick out my clothes and wear a sweater or a jacket. The winter morning, however, deceived me. As the sun rose and cooked the earth, the jacket that once brought comfort and warmth is now a burden; do I wear this thing all day and bake, or do I tuck it somewhere my mother would not approve of? Being the self-centered child I am, I would always squeeze the swe(a)ter into my school desk, and my mother did not approve.
Seeing as my parents are older, they had eight children. It was the norm back then, as it should be now. I was the youngest of eight children. I was the special boy that got the long end of the stick. At the age of two, we moved out of our small house into a bigger one. There was more space, the yard was huge; I don’t remember any of the misery of the small house. When I became a little bit older, my Father built an extension so that my sister and I didn't stay at the same room, my Father paid for a TV for me; I had it all. After I got my license, I drove my own car, too. Whenever my brother tells me how crying three or four times a day was part of his routine, I feel that I lived at a time where my family is better off than it was with five brother clamoring and clawing at each other all the time.
Soccer was the pastime. Not one that I greatly enjoyed, but everyone else was playing, so I was socially obligated to play as well. The ball would be new for a day, two at best. The ball was flat by nightfall. The palm trees were to blame. We would play in a makeshift playground with bare feet and interlock blocks stacked eight or so high as our goal posts. The horizontal goal post was imaginary, and would be limited by how high that specific goalie could jump. That meant all high balls would start an argument. “GOAL!” “What?! The ball was too high! I jumped and it was way too far!” It is irrelevant who was on which side, my cousin always won the arguments. I don’t think he ever admitted to being wrong in his lifetime.
High school was different back in Oman. The school where I went was an international school; American curriculum, Omani culture. The boys were separated from the girls (most of the time). Being in a boys’ classroom all day long can wire a person to think a certain way, and vice versa for a girl in a girls’ class. To break the seal in senior year and be in a mixed classroom for elective classes was a nice twist. Being new to it, everyone was polite and quite during electives where both the girls and the boys were in the same classroom. During other classes, however, the boisterous nature of the males would show. Loud, rude and aggressive, our class was just perfect in my eyes. Everyone was always one hundred percent macho, all day, every day. There were the peacocks; the guys showing off for some attention from the softer gender. Then you had the smarties, off in their corner discussing their politics and economics. I was one of them, and like them, I had no clue what I was saying. At the back were the trouble makers, either on their phones, or throwing something down the third floor window. Always up to something. ALWAYS. There can be switches between categories, sometimes. It’s always entertaining to see a trouble maker argue about valid economic government types.
Iowans might dread living in a desert environment, but I plead you to try. I am here myself! I have been through both extremes. In our winter the weather is just flawless. It is such a pleasure to stay and freeze in Iowa while the winter days seep away into the heat of the summer back home. I digress, but my point still stands! Experiencing the summer heat is bucket list stuff. Getting out of the air plane after our summer vacation and receiving the slap of the western winds. Like opening an oven, except you don’t get to eat a cake. The dry air and hot sun make you appreciate the rain and the winter. Other than the weather, all I did back home when it came to food was eat it. No cooking/peeling/seasoning/cleaning involved. I appreciate everything more, now...
Between the summer heat and the noisy high school students, nothing stands out to me more than my family. Whether it’s playing with the kids or talking to my brothers, there is always something to do. Everywhere you look there is a face of somebody who needs me. Sometimes for my driver’s license, sometimes for my spare time, and sometimes for my muscle mass (seriously my mom makes me carry her groceries). Home is where the heart is, and my heart is collectively shared by a Father, a Mother, five brothers, two sisters, ten nephews, and eight nieces.