Unknown: not known or familiar.
Known: recognized, familiar, or within the scope of knowledge.
At 18 years old, a recent graduate of high school, the only home within my scope of knowledge was in Mobile, Ala. A place with oak trees lining every street, a cannon in Midtown, football rivalries, southern belles, but most of all, the good ole southern hospitality. This city, where I was born, learned to ride my bike in, loved, laughed, worried, and cried in, was the “known.”
After graduating, a feeling of nostalgia set in. I was leaving this place; it was actually going to happen in two months. How was two months enough time to say goodbye to friends, family, and such a glorious childhood? It wasn’t, but there will never be “enough time.”
Going through high school, I, like any teenager, couldn’t wait to get out of that chicken coup of a town. It was either too big or too small, too happy or too sad, too developed or not developed enough; I didn't appreciate the many things my city had to offer, and yet complained about the amenities it did have. I focused on my current expectations of this town so intently that I forgot to examine the reasons why I loved and called this place my home for 18 years.
I called this place home because of the things and people that made me into who I am today: my parents, my youth group, my grandparents, my best friends, my school, Dauphin Street and, of course, the endless rain showers on sunny afternoons. This “known” place was home because of these people and things that led to countless irreplaceable memories.
As I began my six-and-a-half-hour journey to the “unknown,” I had a feeling of terror. How is one supposed to uproot their whole life and move hours away to another state? My whole life and everything I loved was in Mobile, Ala., not Sewanee, Tenn. I, of course, had chosen Sewanee for many reasons, but those reasons seemed to be suppressed during this emotional ride into the “unknown.” For a few hours, I felt like my train had been derailed. Thankfully, that feeling didn’t last for long.
My little Subaru kicked into overdrive as she propelled up old Cowan Road, a road she would become familiar with. Suddenly, the trees overlapping the road, the rocks protruding from the surface, and the water falling down the mountain had a new meaning: it was no longer the “unknown.” As I passed through the gates to Sewanee and tapped the roof for my angel, I began to realize that the unknown had begun transforming to the known, to home.
A year later, as I sit in my room with the windows open, the rain drizzling, and the sounds of people laughing, I have come full circle: I now have two homes, two “knowns.” My home now includes the trees changing color in fall, snow in the winter, the wearing of Barbour jackets, All Saints’ Chapel bells ringing, and the endless forests surrounding me. Sewanee, Tenn. is my second “known” place, my new home.
Just this summer, I was in Mobile, Ala. for a few weeks. My hometown still had the same trees, the cannon, and the smell of the bay, but I found myself missing Sewanee. Each and every time I visit Mobile, I am thankful for my life there, but I have come to realize that it’s actually quite rewarding to have two “known” places. I have a home in the mountains and on the Gulf, both of which are filled with endless love and memories. What more could one want?
