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I Wish I Was Home
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I Wish I Was Home

On Not Belonging

Robert Jones, Jr.'s avatar
Robert Jones, Jr.
May 13, 2025
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James Baldwin, “Colored Entrance Only,” New Orleans, 1963. Photo by Steve Schapiro, Patriot Ledger.

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“You never leave home. You take your home with you. You better. Otherwise, you’re homeless.”

— James Baldwin, James Baldwin: The Price of the Ticket (1989)

I have a lot of insecurity around the concept of home. I have rarely ever felt at home anywhere since my grandmother, the only person who ever had faith in me—I mean complete and unconditional faith in not just my potential, but in me—died when I was seven. It wasn’t until relatively recently that I even had an inkling of what being welcomed felt like when my best friend and her wife hosted me and my husband at their gorgeous home in Oakland, California.

It took me by surprise, that feeling of nobody: watching me like a hawk, waiting for me to make a mistake, cutting their eyes at me as I walk into a room, sighing in exasperation at my mere presence, looking at me like I’m taking up too much space, making inappropriate physical contact, daring me to touch their property, questioning why I’m both seen and heard, engaging me like I’m an intruder, wishing I wasn’t there.

Instead, I felt a full embracing that I’m ashamed to admit I could not recognize, that I didn’t know how to trust because I had never really been shown home before. I know house. I’ve experienced “You better be lucky I let you stay here.” I’ve dealt with “You’re a burden and a nuisance.” I’m familiar with “And what are you willing to do in exchange?” I’ve been told “You’re not allowed in here.” I’ve seen “You were never invited.” I’ve felt people sigh or roll their eyes when I enter a room. I’m well acquainted with “When are you going to leave?” “There won’t be no faggots living under this roof” is quite clear to me. There was even a period where I was houseless.

But home has been, in essence, a complete unknown.

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