Going Home

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Some days, I go to school, and on the way to school, I think that there is nowhere else in the world I would rather be. No matter what time of year it is, I walk through the neighborhoods, and every morning, I see the same people I always see: the tiny old lady walking what may be the tiniest dog in the world, the man at the newsstand with the walrus mustache, the skipping twins on their way to the bus stop. I don’t know any of their names or where they live, or what their favorite foods are, or what they think about anything, but these are people I’ve known forever. In a strange way, I think of them as my friends. Every day, I smile at them, and they smile at me. The man at the newsstand says “Buenos días” in his deep voice and will sometimes comment on the weather in Spanish because years and years ago I told him that my parents spoke Spanish too, and he told me I needed to learn. When it rains, the old lady with the dog always scolds me and tells me I should carry an umbrella. And school—it’s the same. What I like best is the routine: homeroom, English, biology, physical education, lunch, math, and social studies, then soccer practice after school. I see the same people at school every day, sit next to the same people in my classes, eat lunch with my same friends. I have friends I have known as long as I can remember. It’s as comfortable as being at home. My parents moved into our house before I was born. I know everything there is to know about our street. The oak tree in the yard has a tree house that my father built when I was six. The sidewalk is cracked in front of our neighbors’ house from the big earthquake; we use the uneven pavement as a skate ramp. If you run past the tall fence in front of the big white house on the corner, you can see through the fence as if it didn’t exist. At breakfast my parents give each other a look, and I know something is going to happen. Before they can say anything, I want to know what it is all about. “Nothing bad,” my father says. I look at my mother, and she gives me a smile of reassurance and pats my shoulder. “You should be happy, Carlos. This is only good news.” What I see on their faces is worry. “We’re going to move,” my father says. Today on my way to school I look at everything as if seeing it for the first time. The tiny old lady waves at me; her tiny dog wags its tail and gives a tiny bark. The man at the newsstand greets me. The skipping twins almost run me off the sidewalk, but they veer in the other direction and race off to the bus stop. I feel like a different person, a stranger, someone who really might be seeing these people for the first time. No longer are they the familiar landmarks of my daily trek to school. After I move with my family, I might never see them again, and I am filled with an indefinable feeling. I don’t know if it’s loneliness or grief. For the first time ever, my school day is not comfortable. All day long, I feel constricted and restrained, the way you feel when it’s winter and you’re wearing layers of sweaters under your jacket, and everything feels too tight and you can’t move. My English teacher’s voice sounds high-pitched and scratchy; my friends say the same things they always do, but today it seems boring; my lunch tastes like chalk; and my pitches in P.E. class go wild, as if they have a mind of their own. In social studies, the teacher lectures from the chapter we read the night before, so it’s like knowing how the movie ends before you sit down in the theater. Going home from this day is a relief—until I remember that we’re moving. I try to imagine living somewhere else, but all I can see is a blank space, a question mark, an empty page. All I know is my life. All I know is where I live, where I go, what I do here. I have been other places— I have visited my grandparents in Texas and my cousins in Mexico, and once we took a trip to New York. You can visit anywhere, but until you walk the same route to school every day for years, what do you know? You can know about the average rainfall and the geographical landmarks, but where is the best place to get a milkshake? My mother comes up to my room and tells me that my father has gotten a promotion. That’s why we are moving. “Don’t you want to know where we’re going?” she asks. “Not really,” I say. She tells me anyway. I pretend not to listen. Every day, my parents tell me something about the town that will become our new home. There is a bronze statue honoring World War II veterans in the park downtown. In the summer, there are rodeos at the county fair. There is an annual strawberry festival. The mayor used to be a pro football player. There are oak trees in our new neighborhood, just like the one in our yard. Images of oak trees and rodeo clowns and strawberries and statues begin to fill in the blank space in my mind. I start wondering what it might be like to live in this town where the mayor presides at all the high school football games, and the strawberries are supposed to be the best in the world. On the day before we move, I walk in the same direction as I would if I were going to school. When I see the tiny old lady, I tell her good-bye, and she tells me to carry an umbrella when it rains. Her tiny dog holds out a tiny paw to shake my hand. The man at the newsstand shakes my hand, too. The twins wave as they board the bus. I go home, walking slowly through streets lined with oak trees. A huge truck is parked in front of our house. The movers are carrying boxes while my parents are loading suitcases into our car. Soon our house will be empty. But not for long; I know that somewhere there are parents telling their children about a town filled with oak trees, a place where you can get the best milkshake in the world, a place where, if you’re lucky, you might see the same people every day of your life.

Why does the narrator take a walk on the day before the family moves?

Your answer:
to see if the same people are still in the same places
to be away from home when the movers come
to visit the statue in the middle of town
to take one last look at everything familiar

Read this sentence from the selection. . . . I know that somewhere there are parents telling their children about a town filled with oak trees, a place where you can get the best milkshake in the world . . . What makes the preceding statement ironic?

Your answer:
the fact that, like the narrator’s father, parents often get promotions
the fact that, like the narrator’s home, every house has its stories
the fact that, like the narrator, other children are worried about moving
the fact that, like the people in the narrator’s neighborhood, most people enjoy their homes

What does the author emphasize by having the narrator see the same people three different times in the story?

Your answer:
that the new children who move to the narrator's house will be comfortable in it
that the narrator feels at home in this town because nothing ever changes
that the narrator's life is repetitive and boring because nothing ever changes
that the new town the family is moving to will have similar people to meet