Home

I’ve been “home” in Miami for exactly a week. Between bridesmaid duties and fighting with the Spanish Embassy (who by the way- is doing everything in their power to keep me from attaining a visa for my MBA in Barcelona), I have finally had a chance to sit down and reflect.

“Home” is an interesting concept. I’ve always called Miami home because this is where I was born, where I was raised, and where I spent my entire youth until I was released into the wide world at the ripe old age of 18. But to be honest, Miami has never really felt like home to me. If I were to be direct, rather than refer to Miami as “home,” it would the “the place where I learned my first few life-lessons (awful and awkward)” and “it’s the city where my parents live.” That’s pretty much the extent of it. Although, I always love coming home. In theory.

Early on, I had quite the propensity for identity crises. Later, I pretty much figured out who I was and have remained relatively constant for the last decade. However, as soon as I arrive in South Florida, I always seem to wonder who I am supposed to be. To my family, I am one Morgan. To my childhood friends, I am another Morgan. And really- each time I come back- whether it be after a month or after a year…I’m always a different, generally improved, “Morgan.”

One should stay true to themselves, right? Well, its not that easy. “Home” is like a self-fulfilling prophecy. When I come to Miami, being that it was home from 0 years of age to 18, I regress into that old ME- a Morgan that I didn’t actually like so much- a Morgan who was never truly sure of where she belonged or who she was- a Morgan who one year would wear Tiffany silver and inject numerous “likes” into her vocabulary and whose sentences always curved up at the end with invisible question marks when she spoke. The next year, I would be sitting on a street corner in Coconut Grove, smoking hand rolled cigarettes- in black makeup and chains, listening to Nine Inch Nails and cursing the world. The following year, instead of cursing the world, I would decide that I wanted to change the world and wear only hemp clothing, Krishna beads, and march with “Meat is Murder, Abortion Isn’t” banners outside of city hall.

And beyond any actions I took or clubs I frequented, I was a disaster inside- the epitome of an internally conflicted teenager. I’m not going to blame my parents’ messy divorce or my raging hormones- there really is no point. It is what it is; at least that’s what my therapist told me. All I truly know and remember is that wherever I was- I believed I belonged somewhere else. It’s not all bad though. I had a loving family and looking back through my many meticulously organized photo albums; I can say that I did have some good times. (Where there is darkness, there will always be light. No?)

But I was conflicted. As I am now- at “home.”

I walk down the street and I see the people I grew up with- hanging out with the same groups they were hanging out with when I left, frequenting the same restaurants, having the same conversations- the only difference is that this time, they are all wearing wedding bands on their fingers and have babies in their laps. And I know them- But they don’t know me. Most of them don’t care to. And I wonder, maybe they are happier remembering me as I was. Maybe they aren’t ready for change- within themselves or others around them. And then again, its also possible that I have it all wrong and they are my insecurities that are disallowing me to make a place for new Morgan in old Morgan’s territory…almost like I am trying to preserve that tender spot as a reminder of how far I’ve come.

Yet without “The Miami Years,” I would not be who I am now. And I’m pretty pleased with her.