Home is Where the Mold Grows

November marked the beginning of my renewed lease at this old place. My first apartment in mainland Dallas, my first home without a roommate, a place my father had to lend me money for in the midst of an emergency, for which I am extremely grateful… this old place. I get to the floors less than once per month. There are coffee grounds that never get swept off the counters. Stains on the countertop from the beets I slaughtered for borscht that one time last year. I can’t get them up, no matter how much I try. They have become my mark on this place, part of its fleshy interior that cocoons me every night. Some things are new. The license plate from my late Toyota Prius hangs on the wall. On another wall, my former boss’ dead stepmother’s mirror. I have begun writing affirmations on my window, the likes of which my neighbors probably think belong to a serial killer or schizophrenic. This place, this $1355/month one-bedroom, is mine. I don’t see a near future where I move out, save the near future in which I dream my soulmate will come sweep me off my feet. I think that’s for thirty-year-old me, however, seeing as I am much too busy investing in my career and can’t afford to drink at the bars I would like to meet said soulmate at. We are at an impasse.

            I discovered black mold on my faucets about six months ago. I saw it in the bathroom, in the shower, in the kitchen. Seeing as my quarterly clean was not for a while longer, and seeing as it had been growing for some time without my knowledge, and seeing as I already drink from the tap without a filter, I ignored it. C’est la vie, I thought, I haven’t gotten sick yet. Now, I don’t exactly remember when that instance happened, but I know for damn sure it was now more than a quarter ago. So today, after depositing my fresh sourdough and vegetables on half-clean countertops and clinking my keys into the bowl, I cleaned the mold. In my own way, probably not the best way. After one year of living life—hangovers, hookups, frozen pizzas, and financial troubles, I am now mold-free. I still drink from the tap, and I have no doubt the problem will continue. But there’s something about radically accepting a place, for all the good and bad it may be, and claiming it. That’s how I feel about Dallas. It’s awful, stinky, snooty, hot, and fake. But my neighborhood, while it has a stench of its own, is authentic, artistic, good, and a whole lot of fun. I would not be able to withstand a trip to Central Market if it weren’t for Deep Ellum, nor a ill-fated night out on Greenville Avenue if it weren’t for the half-pound Adair’s monstrosity of a burger I had just a few hours prior. I would not be able to breathe were it not for independent bookstores and creative conferences in Oak Cliff. There is so much to hate about this metroplex. So many churches, a comfort zone for every person. I guess I sold my soul to the devil long ago, drinking in the sweet nectar of worldliness and vowed to be a ciudadana del mundo, wherever that would take me. It has been a delicious, sweet time. I think my family awaits my regrets and my turning back, but I have, with each passing year, continued to look forward. Especially now. This year has changed everything. I think I have more foreign-language literature than English literature. I’ve been to two creative conferences where I didn’t have to spend money I didn’t have to experience a wealth of culture and language right here in my city. I had a car wreck, and now I am intensely aware and fixated on my own loneliness. I have learned my insignificance, and significance. I have stopped listening to the opinions of others. I have grown alongside the black mold.

            Now, it is Sunday. There is a wealth of contentment in my heart. I have grown up with a scarcity mindset and a transient mindset through the death of my mother and my endless shuffling about apartments with roommates in my early twenties. I worry about my health, and I seek out for myself a comfort zone that doesn’t exist anymore, and I fear never will. It is nice to be comforted; to feel safe. Having that backbone is not inherently a bad thing. It is when it becomes your world, your everything, that you fail to see all the abundance that this world can give you should you just open your hands. But I long for a day which might never come, where I am able to create safety for myself. I think this apartment has been a start. Committing to Dallas has been a start. And this messy, beautiful journey to Spanish, my whole heart and life, is the thing that has knit together the broken pieces of myself. Against a backdrop of this skyline, these honking horns and sirens, booming music from the venues across the street, I find a tranquility in the pages of a Spanish book or a cup of bad coffee on my balcony, cigarette butts staring daggers at me as I have let them go long ago, a little loca and a little bonita, toda para mi.