When I Think About West Virginia

When I think about West Virginia, I feel a small bruise on the underside of my heart. It doesn't come to mind often, feeling more like a scene from someone else's life. But with the accumulation of some fine lines on my forehead, I've noticed my life seems to be made of multiple lifetimes, ever layering. 

When I think about West Virginia, I think of pitch black, bone-chilling mornings. Sitting in a frost-bitten car clutching a hotel bagel while Mom navigated winding, narrow roads—a deep ravine on one side and a roaring coal truck on the other—hell-bent on making it to early morning seminary. I think of the peculiarity of living in a hotel for six weeks. The pleasure of around-the-clock all-you-can-sip hot chocolate with hazelnut and vanilla flavored creamer cups. 

We arrived in Morgantown on Halloween. The leaves had changed but I didn't want to. We pulled up to a neighborhood so maybe Anne could trick or treat. Mom put on a cheerful face and I can't remember if we ever left the car. "We can do hard things," she said. That, I didn't forget. 

Our house on a hill.

We moved to a towering house on a hill. Four floors, and my own room with a heater I would curl up against like some sort of reptile, phone pressed to my ear, talking, talking, talking to my lifeline back home. I can still conjure my room's smell if I try.

There's humor in remembering again. Like in seminary, the nauseating smell of easy-going Luther's 6:00 am Hot Pocket which he daily microwaved and consumed before falling in to room-rattling snores. 

At school I made an unusual assortment of friends. Sweet and universally beloved Emily, the orchestra director's daughter. Evan, a wild-haired, olive-skinned drummer with dark scruff like a full-grown man. Sarcastic and sharp-witted Nina, who wore a thick cat eye and a deep red lip to AP English. Gentle, convivial Lucas, who kinda-sorta-almost asked me to prom, by way of asking me who he should ask to prom. Justin, my first evangelical crush (but maybe it was just the way he sang "I'll Follow You Into the Dark" at the school talent show). And Marius, the tall, blond Norwegian exchange student with a sideways grin.

School felt bleak, but I appreciated the building's preppy east coast vibe.

The broader social scene felt like a movie caricature—leering lacrosse boys and spray-tanned girls who broadcasted status with bedazzled Miss Me jeans, tan Ugg boots, and floral Vera Bradley bags. But the marching band was the strangest hierarchy of all. The queen bee was a drum majorette who would lead the procession wearing a large feather headdress, a fringed faux-leather dress and white go-go boots she kicked in the air. 

Like every good protagonist, I did sit in a bathroom stall a couple times during lunch. But most often I went to the library where Marius or Evan would find me. There never quite was a cafeteria table where I fit in, or really, where I wanted to fit. Most often, it was a relief to eat on my own. 

Ryan was usually in the library during the same time. I knew him from church, but kept our conversations short. He had bristly brown hair, a round face and glasses. He would always ask me for a hug and I think I usually obliged. I thought about those hugs much differently when, during my second year of college, my mom called to tell me he had taken his own life. 

Peter, another boy from church, was my first preview of an introvert relationship. Rage Against the Machine and my nervous chatter filled the car as we drove to prom. Our friendship was best stomping through the forest in knee-high snow, on the way to his house for pumpkin waffles. 

When I think about West Virginia, I think of rough beauty. Green hills rolling on and on and lush urban forest trails straying under colossal graffiti-marked bridges. Overcast skies and skin-clinging humidity. University ghettos strewn with singed furniture. Trailer home villages tucked deep in the woods. A pristine amphitheater on the river, where I once grasped Bill Clinton's hand.

When I think about West Virgina, I think of my family. The music we made together in a cramped recording studio, at a soup kitchen, in a chapel with stained glass windows, on the high school auditorium stage. I think of long hilly runs with my mom and the best Middle Eastern food we ever ate on a trip to D.C. These are the people who are with me no matter where I go. 

When I think about West Virginia, I think of the fleeting seasons of life. I think about how I don't plan to go back. I think about how it's good I came.