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I am in the land of my old life. It is beautiful and I remember why I clung so dearly to it. I know this place as my home. It is my home because of the people, because of the way my stomach turns when we drive by the journalism building on campus. I associate road signs, cars, businesses and certain weather with different emotions totally disconnected from the place or thing, but the experiences created with their cooperation. On Chestnut St., my favorite street in Bowling Green because of the beautiful, historical houses and large foliage, we drove past my old apartment building. I looked at the third floor balcony, my old balcony, and I remember the view. To the left you can see the beginning of the historical downtown district, marked by a Church of Christ on one side of the road and a large building that must have once housed several services but now only sells musical instruments through one store front. To the right, you see another gigantic church, Baptist on that side, and the beginning of campus, unnoticeable except for the corner of a stone wall marking the north edge of the university. I spent late nights on the porch in the warmth of summer. Regardless of my company the view of Bowling Green is still, to me, the epitome of my city. Straight ahead from the balcony trees covered hospital hill, a USA flag painted water tower pokes through the green.

My friends are the people I love and remember, or the extrapolation of that memory. Banter with them is comfortable and easy, even after we run out of catching up. They remind me of who I am, and what I strive to be. I think happiness in life is difficult to come by, if you consider self-improvement as a factor, if you are not familiar with your roots. I was born in New York State, moved to North Carolina at the age of two, and was relocated to Kentucky eight years later. The transition was not easy. Even for an adaptable youngster like me. I loathed the city for years and imagined a perfect life in my true home of North Carolina or New York. Every summer I would travel with my mother, or visit my dad in North Carolina. Throughout the school year I flew to visit my dad for long weekends or holidays. The constant uprooting and reminder that I was not geographically centered made the concept of a home difficult to grasp.

Home is where the heart is. This is true. In meeting new people, I tell them where I am from for more reasons than perpetuating small talk. I am proud of my home, I am proud of the relationships I fostered, and I am proud of the person I became there because it was part of making me who I am today, for better or worse (there is only one of me, so I might as well look on the bright side). Certain aspects of southern/midwestern/kentuckian culture are as much a part of me as my kneecap or left butt cheek. I hold an extreme fondness for the elderly that are as wrinkled as they are sassy. The isolated redneck, separated from his herd, is my ideal conversation mate. Southern chivalry in regards to women plagues my relationships. Bourbon and tobacco twist around my personality like boa constrictors. My home has personal relevance that many wouldn't associate with Kentucky, however. My inclination to debate is a product of my friends and their strong opinions. Introversion was the price I paid for the close-knit fraternity that is my nest today. Distaste for the close minded and bigoted stems from bonds formed between those that clashed as the counter-culture to a state that bleeds red. These things, and so many more, are the building blocks of my home, and my heart.