by Margot Kahn
I’m not angling for sympathy here. We had a dream and we made it a reality. I know it is an extreme privilege to have the opportunity to live this wacky life. But I do have some concerns. Because I’m not a carefree vagabond in my twenties anymore, skipping from lucrative boat jobs to unpaid internships all willy-nilly. I have a family to think of and a child to raise. For now, he goes between our dry and wet homes with ease. But for how long? What will he make of all this as he gets older? Will he glow with the special feeling of having love, community, and friendships in not just two homes but two countries? Will he be pleased to be bilingual and savvy with a soccer ball? Or will he come to tire of the constant motion? Will he resent this family tradition of uprooting? I worry one home can never be enough for me and that I am passing this trait on to my son. I worry our family will never fit in, full-time, in either home and we will be doomed to be outsiders wherever we go. Having too many homes can diminish the power of the original concept: home as the place where you feel you most belong.
Sometimes I fantasize about a home that embraces both our worlds. Four walls and a roof, concrete foundation anchoring it to land but inside paintings of whales and sailboats and a cozy galley-like kitchen with teak and brass. Mexican oilcloth on the table in bright, primary colors and loads of maritime books, telling stories of the high seas. A land boat, a boat house. And no chance of seasickness. But even the mere fantasy triggers a wave of sea-homesickness. I would miss the turquoise sparkle of the sun glinting off the water! I would miss the digital detox of living without smart phones and Internet. I would miss the sense of possibility, like we could up-anchor and go anywhere in the whole world, at a moment’s notice. Clearly, I’m in pretty deep.
When my thoughts get all twisted in knots like this, I come back to what I know. I love the sea but I can’t live on it year-round. We want and have to work and it’s easier to do so in our home country. Dividing our world in half makes sense for now and someday I will look back and wish I had just enjoyed the ride. Embraced the good and the bad, the stressful transitions and the lessons they teach us. I think moving between two homes can foster agility, adaptability, curiosity, and a Zen-like detachment from material things. Combine that with a healthy dose of respect, kindness, and empathy and I can’t think of better values to pass along to my son.
Back out on deck, Etolin gurgles and points at the horizon. I catch a glimpse of a lingering column of mist hanging in the air. A humpback whale exhales again, then dives under the surface with her newborn calf close behind. Seasonal migrants like us, this whale swam north thousands of miles while pregnant to feed in the nutrient-rich waters of the Pacific Northwest. Now that she is back in tropical waters she has given birth and will teach her calf the same route and lifestyle. Hard to say, but from here they look pretty happy.
Maybe we aren’t crazy after all.
KaiLea Wallin was born on an island in Alaska, spent her childhood on boats, and gets habitually seasick. Nevertheless, she has worked, lived and taught on boats for most of her life. She writes personal essays, feminist fiction, and travel stories between boat projects and chasing her offspring.
Size Matters
Sonya Chung
Your average portable vacuum cleaner features a retractable cord that is 12 feet in length. Square 12, multiply by π, and you get 452—roughly the square footage of the area that can be cleaned without having to move the plug to another outlet. This is also the ideal size of any dwelling that I might call home; it is in fact the size of the studio apartment in New York City that I do call home.
It’s taken me a long time—forty-four years—to feel at home somewhere. But I do, finally.
It’s unexpected, and lucky. We acted out of necessity—limits and constraints. We might have chosen otherwise, with more resources. We imagined we would trade up sooner than later.
Now, I sit at my six-foot desk, built in under the kitchen window and within reach of espresso-maker and air-pop popper (doggie-dining and recycling underneath), and I think, perfecto.
Now, I think: how can we hold onto it. I could grow old and die here.
Now, when I browse real estate for one-bedrooms in the Bronx or Queens, I think, That’s too big.
Which came first, the claim that “size matters” or the assurance that it doesn’t? It occurs to me, in any case, that the expression is guilty of weak specification. The unaddressed question isn’t whether size matters but, rather, which size is preferable.
In the case of penises, “size” is assumed to mean large size, and that of course is the joke: “size matters” is much funnier than “only large penises satisfy sexually.” These days the joke extends into nonsexual realms, while maintaining its innuendo: think Martha Stewart whipping up egg whites into formidably stiff peaks, coaching us through with banter—Keep whipping, there are no shortcuts here: size matters. A faint smile, shift of the eyes. Har har.
So let’s be clear: when we say size matters, what we’re saying, without saying it, is Bigger is Better. And when we say size doesn’t matter, we offer comfort in the face of insecurity: don’t worry, small is okay.
I’m saying: Small is more than okay. Small is home.
What is “big”? What is “small”?
In Manhattan, a 700-square-foot apartment is “spacious”; in Paris, très grand.
A 10x10 bedroom can fit a full-sized bed frame (with understorage drawers), nightstands on either side, a chair, and at least 30 feet of wall-mounted shelving.
For my sister, who lives in the suburbs with her husband and two children, her 2,500-square-foot house is “too small.”
In Grahamstown, South Africa, circa 1994, students at the elite University of Fort Hare—alma mater of soon-to-be-elected President Mandela—hosted a group of us from US colleges. The rooms were modern and clean, with modular furniture; 75 square feet if I had to guess. The students were distinctly proud to share their accommodations. Seeing each room’s hard linoleum floors and single twin bed, we all wondered if blow-up mattresses or mini futons were stowed away in the closets. Then the light of realization dawned on us: for three nights we slept snugly, head to toe, with strangers. Those of us who keep in touch still talk about it.
Small = poor or working class. Small = cheap, chintzy (meal portions, gemstones). Small is not the same as thin, which is considered attractive in women when in conjunction with tall. Small = weak (engines, hands). Small = failure (a small audience, a small readership). Small = ungenerous, petty, rigid, regressive (hearts and minds).
A small business is an independent business, a sign of healthy entrepreneurialism and a thriving community. Small = the underdog we root for (the runt, the little engine that could). Every parent wants a small classroom for their child. Small = luxury, specialty, elite (small-batch bourbon, beer, cigars, ice cream). Small = nimble, permissible, advanced (pets, luggage, electronics).
Small = limited, constrained. We forget—or perhaps, in the U.S., we underestimate—that while limitations and constraints can be damaging, they are just as often constructive. Better than okay.
Better than big.
We’ve lived in our small apartment for seven years. One of us is 6′ 1″. We had a big dog until two years ago; now we live with two little dogs, four rubber trees, and several herb plants. We are not twenty-somethings, or even thirty-somethings, on an adventure. This is home.
Perhaps I mention it too often. We live in a studio apartment. 450 square feet. And we both work from home. Why do I do that? Like name-dropping, it’s some kind of badge, a need to prove something.
We like it. It works. We’ve figured it out.
What is “it”?
While it’s far from commonplace for Americans to favor small over big when it comes to necessities, this may be changing.
Consider: Tiny House Nation, Tiny House Hunting (FYI Network); Tiny House Big Living, Tiny House Builders, Tiny House Hunters, Tiny House Luxury (HGTV). Tiny, Small Is Beautiful, Living Small, We the Tiny House People (feature-length
documentaries). Tiny House Listings, Tiny House Trailblazers, Misfits Tiny Homestead, Tumbleweed Tiny Houses, Tiny House Living, Tiny House Design, Tiny House Swoon, The Tiny Life, Tiny House Talk, Tiny House Blog, tinyhousefor.us, ilovetinyhouses.com.
A quick Internet search for tiny house designers and builders yields easily twenty-five reputable specialists, evidently quite busy.
Tiny House Hunting, Season 1 Episode 1: the first house that Gus and Kyle look at is a whopping 650 square feet—a significant downsize from their 2,000 square-foot house in Boston, but not small, and not nearly tiny. By episode’s end, they’ve “learned a lot about what tiny really means”—not just square footage, but lifestyle and philosophy, e.g., economical use of indoor space to encourage outdoor activity. They settle on a 400-square-foot modern cabin. (Hoorah for tiny!)
In her 2016 BuzzFeed article, “Who Is the Tiny House Revolution For?,” Doree Shafrir writes, “[A] few common themes emerge… They want to rid themselves of unnecessary possessions; to not feel beholden to maintaining a too-large house, particularly cleaning it; they want to be out of debt; they want to live more ‘green’… they want to spend more time with each other or with family (… are forced into a small space together); they often want to live off the grid, or at least in a remote area…”
We don’t exactly fit the profile.
Neither of us are pack rats or collectors. I do hate cleaning and am serious about one-plug vacuuming. We do recycle and compost and are mindful of lights and running the a/c, but that’s just what you do these days, isn’t it (size doesn’t matter)? We work at home, so definitely on-grid.
We moved here because at the time buying was cheaper than renting, and it was what we could afford. Now, seven years later, contending with career transitions and increasing maintenance fees, our housing cost is inching steadily beyond our means.
We do spend quite a lot of time together; that’s been an adventure.
Some things we’ve figured out:
• No radio, not even news, between the hours of 8 a.m. and 5:30 p.m.
• Same, obviously, for TV.
• Music with no lyrics is okay; music with non-English lyrics (opera, for example) is okay. A decent set of headphones is a good investment.
• No way this works if only one of you is a smoker.
• Schedule business phone calls during lunchtime or at 5 or while walking the dogs.
• Your chargers are not my chargers.
• Togetherness does not always involve verbal communication.
• Even so, after a full day of not-talking and not-listening, cocktail hour is a beautiful thing.
• A sleep mask is a good gift from the person who reads late into the night to the person who is highly light-sensitive.
• In 450 square feet, with thoughtful planning and arrangement, it is possible to have a living area with TV, a dining area, a sleeping area, a full-sized kitchen, sufficient closet and pantry space, bathroom with tub, and two home-offices.
• Books are not so different from clothes: if it’s been on the shelf for a year and you haven’t read it or referenced it, it’s not earning its shelf-space: pass it on.
• An hour is as long as you can sit, fully clothed, in a bathtub after an argument. Better to walk around the block in your pajamas or find a bench—even late at night, even in the cold.
• Whatever “it” is, when you’re living with another person in 450 square feet, you can’t fake it or avoid it.
Easy for you to say.
In high school, a friend was talking about missing his father, who’d died of cancer. They had a close relationship. You’re lucky you miss him, I said. The words just came out. You’re lucky you had a good father. My friend looked at me like I’d kicked him in the shins—pained, but also bemused. Then he laughed, almost pityingly.
Easy for you to say, he said. Your father is still alive.
My father was an angry, miserable man. (He is still alive.)
Was it easy for me to say?
450 square feet is more than enough living space for two adults.
Okay.
450 square feet is the ideal amount of living space for two adults.
Easy for you to say.
Our family of five lived in a two-bedroom apartment when I was born, the third of three girls. We moved to a three-bedroom, two-bathroom ranch house when I was still an infant. My middle sister and I shared a room, while my oldest sister had her own, and we all shared the second bathroom. I have only scant memories of those years or that house. The photographs indicate that we three girls were together most of the time, not infrequently dressed identically.
Soon, we moved again. I don’t know why; school districts, most likely. I was starting pre-K, my oldest sister third grade. My father’s medical practice was growing; my mother was learning to manage, and spend, money. The new house was enormous: five bedrooms, five bathrooms, on three floors. A living room, a den, a family room, a dining room, a kitchen, a laundry room, a full basement. The dining room and living room were hardly used, since my parents rarely entertained: by this time they had few friends, because my father was increasingly not friendly.
Both my parents came from poor families, my father’s much more so—country people, uneducated, twelve children, never enough food to eat or shoes to wear. He’s the one who wanted, needed, a big house. Today, he lives alone, still unfriendly, in 3,000 square feet.
Memories from those years, in that house, are abundant and too-clear. The house was not big enough to shroud my father’s chronic anger, self-loathing, and their effects; it was the perfect size, on the other hand, for isolation and loneliness. My oldest sister’s room was at the end of a long hallway, with its own bathroom, and two large closets that she filled with clothes and shoes of which she became intensely possessive. Both sisters became teenagers before I did and often kept their doors closed. I spent a lot of my childhood in the backyard talking to myself, in the damp, dark basement watching TV by myself, in my room scribbling in a diary.
One night not long ago, my middle sister and I spoke honestly for the first time about those years: she knew and saw things I never knew or saw—ugly scenes and words exchanged—and vice versa. We drank wine and we cried, sad and regretful, and it helped; it was also too little too late. Our adult lives have been marked, and addled, by those years (failed relationships, lots of therapy). My oldest sister, I’m told, still hoards shoes and clothing; she lives far away, and I hardly know her.
In college I made friends with other women whose fathers were awful. They are all very close with their siblings. I’m convinced it’s because they shared bedrooms.
That house was too big.
Is that easy for me to say?
According to Shafrir, Tiny Housers comprise, “by definition, a middle-class movement, one that eschews identification with people who have lived in ‘tiny’ homes for decades—whether that ‘tiny’ home is a mobile home, an RV, or just a really small apartment… the tiny house movement has an inherent privilege built in: Going tiny is a choice.”
Indeed. We are in the realm of choice. But when presented with choice, the inclination toward bigger too often, too easily, prevails. Size matters, but how so? My test case plays out like this: I imagine that a friend of mine—who grew up poor, one of four children in a two-bedroom apartment in the South—comes into some money: a major promotion, a smart investment, what have you. She asks me to go house hunting with her. She wants a BIG place—eat-in kitchen, dining, living, an office each for her and the boyfriend, a separate room for each of three children, a guest room, nine closets. Finally, space! She asks me what I think. I say, you’re really asking me? She says yeah. We’ve been friends a long time.
I say, It’s too big. I say, Think about the children. I say, Size matters.
How much space do you really need? What you need and what I need are different. In a small space, however, the question must be asked, over and again. The persistence of the question is the thing. In
450 square feet, there is no auto-pilot, no passive accumulations or retreating into your pod. You have to—I won’t shy away from the word—curate your life; the result of which is more likely to be beautiful, truthful, healthy.
Whatever it is, you are always, every day, figuring it out. Together.
Does my hypothetically newly rich poor friend have to experience big space before she can choose small space? Maybe. But I’m still going to tell her what I believe to be true: curate is not a word reserved for the middle class; nor is healthy. I would want anyone in my friend’s position to have access to both.
If we have to move, then yes, we have the privilege of options. I’m trolling tiny houses, learning about permits and trailer widths and metal roofing. I especially like the ones with rooftop balconies—a much better option than the bathtub.
I do not want to let go of the place I have finally called home. I have found home in small. But small in itself isn’t the point. The point, ultimately, is what matters.
Sonya Chung is the author of the novels The Loved Ones—a Kirkus Best Fiction 2016, Library Journal Best Indie Fiction, Indie Next List, TNB Book Club, and BuzzFeed Books Recommends selection—and Long for This World. She is a staff writer for The Millions and founding editor of Bloom, a site that highlights the work of authors who debut after age forty, and is a recipient of a Pushcart Prize nomination, the Charles Johnson Fiction Award, the Bronx Council on the Arts Writers’ Fellowship & Residency, a MacDowell Colony Fellowship, and a Key West Literary Seminars residency. Sonya’s stories, reviews, and essays have appeared in the Threepenny Review, Tin House, BuzzFeed, Huffington Post, The Late American Novel: Writers on the Future of Books, and Short: An International Anthology, among others. Sonya has taught fiction writing at the Gotham Writers’ Workshop, NYU, and Columbia University. Currently she lives in New York City and teaches at Skidmore College.