This memory belongs to me and I belong to it. It is as blurry as a watercolor.
I remember a house and the property upon which it sat and the people who lived inside it. A woman–probably in her 20s, maybe 30s, with long brown hair–and her father, tall and kind, lived there. The house was a sprawling, split-level ranch with a gravel driveway in a neighborhood that was sparsely populated at that time – the 1960s. I must have been five or six years old. Behind the house lay a field and maybe a pond, and the sound of geese echoed, and the trees skeletal against a steel sky. It must have been late fall or early spring. The house was warm with wood-paneled walls and furniture covered in lodge-y fabric, a pheasant or duck toile. A built-in bookshelf held a collection of model cars, each car as big as a shoebox. Somehow, I belonged there. I know this.
For nearly a half century, I have searched my memory for clues–whose home it was, why I think of it fondly, why it still feels like home. I never get any further than the toile. Like the Fuller Brush Man or a Jehovah’s Witness, I am allowed in the memory’s doorway but no farther. It breaks my heart—as if not remembering means I no longer belong.
Our need to belong is an instinct stitched into DNA to keep humans together. We are safe in groups, protecting the species. But the opposite – not belonging – is something that torments us. It feels unsafe. It triggers us into fight or flight.
I can think of few worse feelings than alienation. Studies have shown that people are reluctant to sever ties, no matter how insignificant those ties may be in their daily lives (see “The Need to Belong: Desire for Interpersonal Attachments as a Fundamental Human Motivation,” 1995, APA). Rejection from belonging, no matter how small, is, in my monkey brain, equivalent to banishment from the tribe. “Unfriending” someone on Facebook causes me angst. Being unfriended can feel even worse. (Yes, there are exceptions.)
I surround myself with symbols of belonging, evidence that I belonged once or still do. Maps and globes mark the mitochondrial trail of my belonging, from sub-Saharan Africa to the Near East and Caucasus, through thousands of years to western France, then England, and then Ohio. Genealogical records, family photographs, my grandfather’s miniature furniture—these artifacts of people I’ve never known but to whom I belong.
The hutch contains vintage household goods (nesting pyrex mixing bowls, my mom’s diamond-patterned milk glass coffee mug) that I hunted down in antique stores and on Ebay. They affirm my belonging to family. I need affirmation. Boxes of letters and souvenirs going back to fifth grade—notes passed in class, postcards, concert tickets, love letters from boys I no longer remember. This is not nostalgia. It is belonging. This belongs to me, I belong to it.
My wedding ring. I belong to you, you belong to me. I am safe. Here. Now.
I may never remember who lived in that house with the pond and geese. But I know I once belonged and have belonged other places. I belong here in the spaces between lines that someday may become like a watercolor. And someday I will forget the places and people to whom I did not belong.
Someone (possibly my husband, maybe a coworker) once asked me why I collected ticket stubs. Why not? For me, they are reminders of when I belonged to a different group, time and place. I love the little tokens that trigger memories.
Thanks for reading and commenting, Cyn.
This story makes me think of being and longing. Do you understand what I mean? It is comforting and melancholy.
Yes, yes, yes. Be-longing. And some things “belong” through ownership but here I’m talking entirely about being part of, not owning. Thanks for seeing that and getting it. I had such a hard time writing this — too broad of a subject for less than 600 words! Really appreciate your words.
This is so true and so beautifully written. I wish I could remember every thing forever but we aren’t wired that way.
Thank you, Stacie! Wish I could remember lots of things!
I remember not belonging and so this sentiment stirs an ancient ache. Beautifully written.
Thank you, Bill. I’m sometimes astonished by how painful it can be.
FInding a sense of belonging is a major reason I started looking into my family tree. As you wrote, “they belong to me; I belong to them.” I take such comfort from it.
Beautiful. It made me think of all the things I have that I’ve kept for similar reasons – tickets stubs to movies (even really dumb ones), National Geographics that my parents started getting in 1982, old books from my grandfather-in-law that I probably won’t ever read, but want to safeguard.
monkey understand that all human creature live in short time between 2 forevers. it 100 % better for live with belongingness.
You made my day, mr sock monkey. <3
I am back living in the house I grew up in. Memories everywhere – a cubby house in the garden, making mud pies and hose fights on hot summer days. It is all still here and seems like it happened yesterday.
Your words flow like a brilliant river, Meg. There is poetry in your writing.