Home Is Where My People Are: The Roads That Lead Us to Where We Belong

by Sophie Hudson

  So I did what most twenty-three-year-olds would do under similar circumstances.

  I took the cat home and named her Prissy.

  I don’t even know what else to add to this story.

  I’m only speaking from personal experience, of course, but when you’re twenty-three and you have very few friends living in your town and you pretend to be a smoker and you own a cat, you might be tempted to wonder when the fun, grown-up part of your life is going to get cranked up and start moving forward. In my case, I alternated between telling myself I was perfectly content and then putting my hope in all sorts of ridiculously unrealistic scenarios, like how maybe that boy I had a crush on in high school would show up on my doorstep and declare his undying love, or maybe I’d be walking to class, lock eyes with someone who looked like Jake in Sixteen Candles (Jake is the pretend-boyfriend gold standard for Generation X girls), and get totally swept up in a whirlwind courtship, or maybe I’d tour the Southern Living offices in Birmingham, strike up a conversation with an editor, win her over with witty pop-culture references, and land myself a full-time internship where I’d get to type all manner of documents and sample food from the test kitchens ALL DAY LONG.

  The occasional bout of desperation doesn’t really breed realism, now does it?

  My parents never confronted me about my general state of restlessness, and even now I’m curious if they knew what was going on with me during my early twenties—if they could see how I was struggling to figure out who I was and what I believed. But I do know this: smack-dab in the middle of the literal winter of my discontentedishness (totally a word)—and probably in the middle of watching Real World: New York when I should have been grading essays—Daddy called and said that he and Mama wanted to send me to a weekend retreat that had meant a great deal to them when they’d attended several years earlier. I agreed to go because I didn’t want to disappoint them, but in the back of my mind I wondered what in the world I was going to do for a whole weekend at a campground outside of Jackson, Mississippi, where I would probably be the youngest person by a mile, people would talk about Jesus nonstop, and I wouldn’t be able to smoke like a sorority girl (quick inhale, exasperated exhale, then repeat).

  I mean, give me a little credit. Because despite all of my issues, I still had the good sense to know that it was tacky to smoke at a church camp.

  And for the record, I’m certain that there have been some lovely, God-fearing smokers at church camps throughout the years. I am just trying to communicate my twenty-three-year-old thought processes, flawed though they may have been.

  I don’t remember many specifics from that weekend at Camp Garaywa, but I do remember my Big Takeaways:

  I had a lot to learn about living a life of faith.

  I had a lot to learn about the Bible.

  I had a lot to learn about God’s character.

  BUT.

  I knew that I wanted to learn.

  And I knew that I loved Him. Still.

  This felt like significant progress.

  It’s interesting in retrospect because it was so unexpected, but Camp Garaywa was the first thing that had ever made me ready to leave Starkville. In fact, I was so camped out on the mountaintop experience of Jesus! and love! and joy! that I actually had a hard time going back to Starkville when the retreat was over. Instead I drove to Mama and Daddy’s house, called Dr. Dearing, and told her I wasn’t going to be able to make it to Tuesday’s classes. I finally drove back to Starkville that Wednesday, kicking and screaming my way down a significant stretch of Highway 45.

  I’m pretty sure I must have missed the memo about doing my work as unto the Lord.

  And clearly, Jesus and I had a few more kinks to work out in terms of my views on personal responsibility.

  Considering how I had struggled with feeling like I was stuck in the in-between while everyone was moving on with their lives, I was almost relieved when I left Camp Garaywa knowing that it was time for me to move on too. I still needed a couple of classes to complete my master’s, and there was an unfinished paper hanging over my head, but I wanted to find a job and move into the next phase of my life. On one hand, I knew that grad school had been worth it because it had made me a better writer, but on the other hand, grad school had been so challenging emotionally and spiritually that I couldn’t wait to get the heck out of Dodge.

  Or Starkville, as it were.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have the foggiest idea where to go.

  The following spring was a disaster.

  Just trust me on that.

  Okay. Fine. I’ll provide an embarrassing detail.

  Early in the semester I’d developed a very large crush on the man who is now my husband. It hit me out of nowhere considering we’d been friends practically all our lives. I even remember one specific time when he stopped by my apartment, and as soon as he walked through the door, I thought, Oh. He is VERY cute. What is different about him? Why do I have a sudden urge to giggle? Who am I, and what is happening? However, since David and I were just really good friends, there were a thousand potentially awkward moments standing between us and a dating relationship.

  But I could not stop thinking about the possibility of a dating relationship.

  And, well, thanks to the crush and a large dose of academic apathy, I basically lost all interest in school. Oh, I taught my classes, and I (mostly) went to my classes too. But I couldn’t seem to muster the will to complete my assignments, especially for a class called Utopian Literature. Part of the reason I struggled in that particular class is because—and you heard it here first—Utopian Literature is a drag. Still, though, I should have made more of an effort. At the very least I could have tried to appreciate the genre even if I didn’t enjoy it.

  Anyway, there were three or four papers due throughout the semester, and I never wrote a single one. NOT A SINGLE ONE. I pretty much just sat in my apartment and wondered what china I would pick out if David and I ever decided to date because obviously if we started to date we would eventually get married and register for china and CLEARLY THIS WAS MY PRIORITY, PEOPLE. So at the end of the semester, when I had basically failed to participate in the class in any meaningful way, the professor put a beautifully handwritten note in my English department mailbox. Here’s what it said:

  I’m sorry that you were unable to submit any papers for grading.

  Course grade: F.

  Isn’t that just about the nicest F you’ve ever heard of in your life?

  I mean, seriously. That professor could have said so many mean things to me, like Way to go, Super Slacker! or I didn’t realize you needed directions to the computer lab! or Good luck with your pretend boyfriend!—but for whatever reason, he was mercifully kind. Lord knows that I’ve carried that F around in my heart for a lot of years, but whenever I think about it, I’m inevitably charmed by the way my professor delivered the news.

  So I guess maybe that’s the bright spot?

  And anyway.

  Spring = disaster.

  Moving on.

  By the time summer rolled around, my employment prospects were drier than a bone. I wouldn’t necessarily say that I was panicked about my lack of potential income for the fall, but I was beginning to feel anxious. I wasn’t making a lick of progress with finding a job, and I’d started to think of countless unrealistic scenarios in terms of what I might be able to do to earn a full-time salary:

  I could be a full-time proofreader at my aunt and uncle’s printing company even though they had no need for a full-time proofreader.

  I could move to Nashville and work as my sister’s personal assistant even though she had no need for a personal assistant.

  I could buy foreclosed houses for pennies on the dollar, refurbish them, and then sell them at a significant profit even though I had no real estate experience (I’m pretty sure this idea came from a late-night infomercial, and I’m also pretty sure that a Tony Robbins infomercial that followed the foreclosure infomercial is what convinced me that I�
��d be fantastic at the real estate stuff because I just needed to BELIEVE IN MYSELF).

  I could babysit full time even though the kids I’d babysat during the summers were now in elementary school.

  I could open up a bookstore/greeting card store in my hometown even though I had upwards of seven dollars in my checking account and had no idea how to run a business.

  So the future—it looked very promising!

  I had so many great ideas!

  Please pardon me, and in the words of DJ Kool, “let me clear my throat.”

  Ahem.

  But in the midst of all that, here’s what I really did know way down deep in my soul, even when I tried to push it out of my mind: I wanted to be an English teacher. I kept thinking about Dr. Dearing’s example—about the way she loved her students and shared stories from her life and told us the truth when she graded our papers. I thought about how, when I looked back on grad school one day, I’d probably remember the hard times more than the happy times, but I’d also remember the near-constant encouragement and humor from the five-foot-two-inch dynamo with a smoker’s cough, an impressive array of shirtwaist dresses, and a deep, unshakable affection for place and for people.

  The irony, of course, was that as far as I could tell, no one was actually hiring English teachers that summer. And despite Daddy’s noble attempts to steer me into a field that might be more lucrative, neither of us could have anticipated the impact of spending three years with a professor as gifted and hilarious and wise as Dr. Mary Ann Dearing. Yes, I valued her feedback on my writing and my teaching—and I admired her dedication to her own writing—but more than anything else, I treasured her friendship. And I wanted an opportunity to pass along what she’d taught me.

  Well, maybe not that little tidbit about Bloody Marys.

  But everything else?

  Golden.

  AS LONG AS I live, I will never forget the morning I drove to a “real” job for the first time. Considering the drive only lasted about two minutes tops, there’s not all that much for me to remember, but maybe that’s precisely why it’s still so fresh in my mind more than twenty years later.

  For starters, I was scared beyond all reason. Like, terrified. I didn’t have a really strong frame of reference in terms of what to expect, and the constant flip-flops in my stomach reminded me that I was headed into a day full of unknowns. I half wished my car would break down so I could delay the inevitable, but the Screamin’ Eagle was in fine form. Or maybe I should say it was in normalish operational form. Because most people rightfully expect that their cars will travel eight-tenths of a mile without incident. Perhaps I was a smidge jaded in the area of transportation.

  I was also somewhat traumatized by how early I had to wake up. I’d spent the last six years on a college student’s schedule, so when I passed by a crew of workers from the power company who had obviously been hard at work for a couple of hours, I wanted to honk and salute and thank them for their selfless service. It only took one early morning to make me realize how SPOILED DANG ROTTEN I had been in terms of my sleeping habits, and I felt a sense of solidarity with all the faithful employees who had been heeding the call of their alarms for fifteen, twenty-five, or maybe even fifty years.

  The morning I remember so well was going to be my first day teaching high school students, and I dreaded it with everything in me. Since I’d been an English major and not an English education major, I’d never taken any classes in classroom management or disciplinary methods or anything like that. I’d taught freshman composition for four semesters, so I wasn’t unfamiliar with talking in front of people, but a college classroom and a high school classroom are two totally different animals.

  And from my perspective, at least, the former was an older golden retriever, while the latter was more of a rabid honey badger.

  Not that I was judging, of course.

  So all that to say: my mind-set going to work that morning wasn’t exactly positive. I was flop sweat–level nervous, I was way too emotionally invested in the dedication of the power company workers, I was frustrated that my car worked, and I was dreading the reality of spending the next nine months in a den full of honey badgers.

  And, well, there was one other teeny tiny little thing.

  I wasn’t teaching English.

  Yep. You heard me. But I’ll say it one more time just in case it’s helpful for that tidbit of info to sink in for a few seconds.

  I wasn’t teaching English.

  Oh, people. There’s something so tricky about the best-laid plans.

  I don’t think there was anything particularly irrational about assuming that if I ever got a teaching job, it would be in English. I certainly hadn’t applied to teach in other disciplines, and while I knew I wasn’t the strongest student in the English department at State (say it with me now: “I’m sorry you were unable to submit any papers for grading”), I had hoped that my teaching evaluations from Dr. Dearing would open a door or two. Ultimately, though, I limited my options by deciding I had to be near my hometown. I didn’t want to teach anywhere that was more than fifteen minutes away from Myrtlewood, and while I could tell you that was because the Lord was clearly leading me in that direction, the truth is that I wanted to live closer to David.

  It’s such a long story. Here is the shortish version:

  Boy and girl are friends their whole lives.

  Boy and girl are inseparable during college.

  Boy leaves Starkville after graduation and works in Myrtlewood.

  Girl stays in school in Starkville.

  Girl misses boy.

  Boy misses girl.

  Girl thinks she has a crush on boy.

  Boy thinks he has a crush on girl.

  Girl spends several months wondering, WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?

  Boy spends several months watching Die Hard on laser disc when he’s not at work because why would he stress out over a crush?

  Boy and girl start to talk about the possibility of dating.

  Girl panics and decides it’s now or never and she’d better move close by or they’ll never date ever and what if he’s supposed to be her husband and how could she miss that and she doesn’t want to risk moving far away.

  Boy continues to watch Die Hard.

  Girl confines job search to a ten-mile radius of her childhood home; parents shake heads at her foolishness.

  Boy tells girl that she shouldn’t move just for him; they have plenty of time, and she should go wherever she wants to go.

  Girl tells boy that she only wants to be in Myrtlewood; she’d never live anywhere else, and she can’t think of any place that could be better for a twenty-three-year-old!

  Girl sits by the phone a lot and waits for someone to call her for an interview.

  About six weeks before school was scheduled to start, I picked up the phone on a whim and called the principal of Myrtlewood High School. Mr. Pearson was one of the assistant principals when I was in high school, and our families have been friends for years. He’s a kind, soft-spoken man who loves the Lord and always offers a timely word of encouragement, so calling him didn’t feel nearly as awkward as it would have if I’d been calling a complete stranger. He answered his phone on the second or third ring, and after we exchanged a few pleasantries, I buried the lead.

  “W-w-w-well,” I stammered, “I know you didn’t have any English positions back in the spring, but I’m still looking for something, and I was just wondering if anything has changed? Has anything opened up for fall?”

  “I tell you what, Soph,” Mr. Pearson answered. “I still don’t have anything in English for fall.”

  My heart sank.

  But then he continued. “However, I did have something open up in another department, and you’re probably not interested, but—well—can you teach Spanish?”

  “Spanish?” I asked.

  “Yep. Spanish,” he responded. “It would mainly be Spanish I—maybe a couple of classes of Spanish II—so if you’re interested, we’ll hav
e to get you a temporary teaching certificate, but I’m happy to give you a shot.”

  My brain went into overdrive. I’d taken four semesters of Spanish as an undergrad, so I was a decent Spanish reader, but as far as speaking? It had never been my strong suit. Plus, I’d have to teach other people how to speak, and I just didn’t know if I’d be able to do that.

  Suddenly, though, I remembered my own Spanish I class in Myrtlewood, and I thought about the stuff we learned: numbers, alphabet, vocabulary, short dialogues, verb conjugations. I felt pretty solid in those areas. Plus, we had fiestas once a semester and listened to Mexican folk music while we ate chips and queso. Compared to analyzing literature, teaching Spanish might be a nice way to ease into working with high school kids. And before I had a chance to consider the cons of taking a job that was outside my subject area, I broke the silence.

  “You know what? That sounds GREAT, Mr. Pearson!”

  There was most likely, probably, quite possibly some insincere enthusiasm in my response.

  “I’ll get the folks in the personnel office to set up your contract,” he replied. “Just give them a call the next time you’re in town, and they’ll go over what we need to do about certification.”

  “I’ll definitely do that,” I responded. And then I remembered my manners.

  “Hey, Mr. Pearson, thank you so much. I can’t even tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  “Well, I’m glad it’s worked out. You are mighty welcome.”

  And that, my friends, is how I made the switch from prospective high school English teacher to la profesora de español.

  It was as easy as uno, dos, tres.

  I’ve never really been a fan of the whole “fake it till you make it” philosophy, but that mind-set was my lifeline for my first semester as a Spanish teacher. I got off to a rocky start because I’d underestimated how difficult it would be for me to establish authority as a twenty-three-year-old in a room of sixteen-, seventeen-, and eighteen-year-olds. Every single mistake I made with classroom management came back to bite me; I’d given the kids such a specific, exhausting list of classroom dos and don’ts that they immediately looked for loopholes to see what they could get away with. I’d been so adamant that these are the rules that you absolutely have to follow that I didn’t allow myself any wiggle room for plain ole common sense.