There’s a fraternity of people who grew up in small rooms in ancient working-class homes in ancient cities who my sympathies will always lie with. Despite architectural differences — from New Orleans shotguns to Boston triple-deckers– the experience is similar. The senses are triggered with a connecting familiarity. It radiates the way we move, breathe, interact. It defines us.
My room was at the end of a long hallway on the second floor of a two-story brick Baltimore rowhome located in Hampden, a north central city neighborhood. Without an HVAC system, my living conditions were defined by the seasons. Springs and falls were pleasant, but in the summer the humidity would seep in and cooked the horsehair plaster ceilings and walls. For circulation I’d throw away my sheets and keep the screen windows open. Through the night dogs barked at each other in conversation, and delivery trucks rumbled and backed into the loading dock at the nearby grocery store. In the winter the floorboards in my room would moan in contraction, and steam would burst from the nozzle on the end of the nickel-plated radiator that sat next to my bed.
Around third grade I decided I wanted my walls painted ocean blue. I don’t know why but I liked the idea of living underwater, constantly submerged in a state of aqua meditativeness. I bought a green lava lamp and burned votive candles and lit incense and the feng shui worked for me. My bookshelf was filled, and LEGO sculptures covered the display case at the foot of my bed. I hung a dartboard on the front of my bedroom door, and, in lieu of darts, my brother and I would fling multi-pointed ninja throwing stars at it. The metal stars would hit the wood with a thunk and splinters would fly.
My one electronic escape was a clock radio I’d won after hitting a certain tier on a school fundraiser (my laborious work usually began and ended by giving my mom the box of chocolates to sell at her office). WBAL, an AM station with a 50,000 Watt signal, was located about a mile from my house on nearby Television Hill. They owned broadcast rights for all the local sports, so I’d listen to Orioles games called by John Miller or University of Maryland basketball games called by Johnny Holiday. When the games weren’t on, I’d listen to local Baltimore Sun columnist Dan Rodricks’s evening variety show, which celebrated the quirkiness of the city. Music-wise, 92Q educated me on hip-hop, and WHFS and 98Rock brought the grunge.
At 18 I jumped a plane to New Orleans for college and didn’t particularly look back. I’d come home in the summers and Christmas, and I don’t know what changes in that time, but there is one and suddenly it was just a children’s room to me, a tether to the past. I stayed in New Orleans after college and worked and didn’t plan on ever moving back to Baltimore. Then Hurricane Katrina hit and I lost my car, apartment and job, and without a ton of resources I moved home, into a room painted like it was submerged in water. I spent the months after the storm honed in on escaping that room. And once I did move out, I worked hard to make sure I never ended up back there.
After 38 years, my parents finally sold the house and moved to more comfortable surroundings, which most importantly includes working HVAC. I’ve been glad to spend some time in the old house while helping them move, but I realize I don’t have a strong connection to the space anymore. It was an experience, but now it’s over and our time is done. Hopefully, though, someone with vision buys it. The old lady still has her charms.
