In
high school my tight-knit group of friends and I would converge on
weekends at our friend Lauren's house. We would load up on snacks,
candy, and pop and settle in for long nights of staying up late
gossiping and watching MTV in the basement. That basement was our own
personal refuge, a fortress of female friendship.
One day
Lauren's mom picked us all up and drove us one town over, where we
arrived at Lauren's grandparents' house. We were all wondering what we
were doing there (no sleepover in our favorite basement tonight?).
Our
questions were soon answered. Sitting in the unfinished basement of the
house, cross-legged on cold linoleum, Lauren told us her family would
be moving there. They could no longer afford their home in the affluent
suburb in which we grew up and were forced to move in with their
extended family.
"It's OK," Lauren said. "I'll still go to the same high school, since we're technically homeless."
The sentence didn't really strike a chord at the time. It didn't carry any weight because she wasn't actually homeless--they
had a place to go to, family who cared about them. So we all smiled and
laughed and played hand-clapping games while imagining what our new
fortress would look like when they finished renovating the basement.
It
was beautiful when it was done, and it did become our new hangout
space. It was like nothing had changed, and I didn't give the idea of
homelessness a second thought.
That was, until my family found ourselves in the exact same situation a few years later.
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