What is a home? The word has been defined in many ways throughout the years. For myself, a home has always been the place and feeling of where one resides. Like we all do here at college, I have referred to my home as the state and town I came from. In a sense, Johns Hopkins has only been my temporary residence. However, last weekend many of my perspectives changed.
My friends and I had ventured to Washington, D.C. to see a concert. Being frugal, we took the MARC train for only about $5 (a great value). However, since the concert finished late that night, the only option for getting back to Hopkins was the Greyhound bus. We walked in a very obtuse manner around D.C. trying to follow the foggy directions given to us by the locals. Walking the streets of Washington late at night is an enlightening experience. The ceaseless begging and scenes of relative poverty on the streets made me wonder about the real economic wealth of America. How could a disparity be so great in our "Capital City?"
Eventually we stumbled upon the bus terminal. Unlike the clean "business-like" facilities of our nation's airports or train stations, the bus station is very humble. However, even at 1 a.m. there was a full crowd waiting for their vehicles. We bought our tickets for $11 (another pretty good value) and waited on the cold benches. While waiting, we were again entreated by the beggars who regularly come in off the streets to lie down on the floor. We sat discussing the night and reading magazines. Most of the people in the station were sitting under a depressingly-outdated banner of Manhattan's skyline. The bus between Washington and New York does not carry the lawyers, politicians or businessmen. It takes the single mothers, the working everyman and others with a more "definite" budget.
Finally, they called for our bus and we boarded the north-bound line to Baltimore. We sat at the back, away from most of the weary travelers sleeping but still defensive about their claimed seating. A bus does not soar above the ground clutter like an airplane. A bus does not mask the view from its windows with pristine clouds. The Greyhound bus drives to and from the hearts of cities, exposing all the decay and blight that surrounds the more prosperous elements of the community.
We reached Baltimore around 2 a.m. The glowing lights of downtown brightly signified that we were back. Catching a cab back up N. Charles St., we waited until the Gilman tower warmly greeted us over the horizon with that familiar view. Coming back gladly to Hopkins, I realized this University is more than a residence to me, but a home. It is not only a place where I reside but also a place where, in a sense, I am from. The red brick is the external signifier of my home, and the people within the masonry are the reason for its being.
However, the brick facades and locations of our homes do not insulate them from the responsibility they bear with their presence. Hopkins is my home, but so are Baltimore, Washington and the whole of the United States.
My ride back home taught me that the comforts of our personal homes are a great refuge and place of normalcy, but we cannot forget the larger scope of where we live. We are citizens of a greater world and its time we recognized the value and importance of all those in our home.
Please note All comments are eligible for publication in The News-Letter.