Pablo Czerkas

Building Me

La magia del lugar dónde vives solo existe cuando lo habitas; tu magia existe al vivir no

sobreviviendo (The magic of the place where you live only exists when you inhabit it; your

magic exists by living not surviving).

My cat’s eye peaks around the room, curious as to why there is so much noise. She changes her

position constantly, trying to find an angle that is unbothered by the noise. My eye also wanders

around the room, observing those around me. To the left, I saw my Mami (mom) texting gossip to her

friends back home in Medellín, and to the right, I saw my Mamita (grandmother), who was

agreeing with everything she heard on the evening Spanish news. A new fad smoothie treatment

receives a nod of approval, as so does a new fad about oranges and chocolate. It’s amusing that

my Mami has constantly fought for my Mamita’s approval, whether it’s about what she wears or

how she cuts her hair, but then my Mamita was right next to her, approving the shakiest ideas.

There was also my calico cat, mi chicle (my gum), who meows at even the slightest movement on

my arm. To believe that I would be lying here with the four of us, especially with my Mami’s

unpredictable health and relationship with her mom, was remarkable. More than that, I was

astounded by the fact that my home (with no prior definite completion date) was going to be

completed in a couple of months.

We moved into our new house in 2017, which took three years to build. My Tato (dad) hired no

construction company, as it was just him and a couple of Polish friends building a place where he

was proud to reside. He spent long nights and took out hard loans to ensure that his dream would

be realized, allowing no one to hinder his goal. My Tato, a person who envies the things that he

never had while growing up back home on the farm in Poland, was constantly dissatisfied with

our old house back in Fairview Lake. He despised having close neighbors who were always nosy

about his new car projects, and he loathed having an HOA and having to cut his lawn a certain

way. In other words, my Tato, who, ironically, did not want to live up to the standards of

Fairview Lake, hated living in a neighborhood with people who did not live up to his standards.

Neighbors who wore their shoes in their house. Neighbors who needed to plan weeks in advance

to hang out. Neighbors that complained about immigrants, and then noted that he was the

exception as he was not “one of those immigrants” He also hated the fact that the nature around our old house was feigned and paltry, as he yearned to move to a place with a big background

surrounded by trees and animals, like the farm back home in Poland. He had his friends in the

neighborhood, but the sheer majority of others living here that frustrated him outweighed the

things he loved about it. Although our house was not technically finished by the time we moved,

he quickly packed everything together to flee from this nightmare.

I felt grateful that he took the time to build this house for us, albeit partially to show off that he

could. On top of that, his nightmare was also where I took my first steps, got my first pet (a

rabbit), and spoke my first words. But only being thirteen years old, I had no option but to move

to a nice yet unfinished house with no green grass, unpainted rooms, and an unfurnished interior.

The same night we moved, I slept in my room stuffed with boxes, feeling a mixture of emotions.

I was worried about how this would affect my friends and my life, but I was excited about the

adventures I could have here. I also dreamt about the positives of leaving the neighborhood. I

was always involved in some sort of melodrama with my neighborhood friends, as we often built

a friendship founded on fun, love, and chaos. Also, there was much misinformation found within

my neighbors houses. For example, my friends and I were playing in my background, and then I

said that I would be traveling to Colombia for the summer to visit my family. Then, my friend

quickly butted into the conversation, citing that Colombia is a very dangerous country, with

snakes, dangerous cowboys, and drug cartels. At the age of twelve, I was somewhat aware of

rural Colombia, with its farmer montañero cowboy  style, but I suddenly turned bright red at

this comment. I have traveled to Colombia many times, but to have my friend suddenly speak

about my Mami’s home country with such negativity- the nerve! I rebutted that Colombia is not

exactly like that- that it’s a country with its flaws, but it’s beautiful with an alive culture. He then

looked at me, mumbled something about being in for a treat, and then returned to playing with

my other friends. That recollection of that memory drove me to recognize that the neighborhood

probably was not the perfect thing that I had idealized. As for my Mami, she neither disliked nor

loved the old house, but she seldom left it. She was very selective with picking out her friends,

and the friends that she did love to spend time with were often busy or moved out of the

neighborhood. But my Mami also preferred to keep to herself, often hiding behind the curtains

from the PTA mothers who wanted her to be on the board. My brother did not have many friends

in the neighborhood, similar to my Mami. He kept to himself, but was never afraid to lash out at

the things he hated about our old house. He did not like that I got the bonus room; he did not like

that my friends always disrupted his relaxation time; and he did not like the neighborhood’s

frivolity. So I returned to my thoughts as I lay in bed, thinking about how our new home would

be different. For one, I was content that my Mami had easier accessibility living here because of

the open floor plan and sit-in showers. Also, I liked how I was still close to the neighborhood,

meaning that I could still visit my friends if I wished. But I still felt nervous about moving in

general, as the house we built had a very unfamiliar atmosphere. Quiet, isolated, and grand all at

once. While I philosophized about the house, all my Mami could think about was if my Mamita

was going to like the guest room built for her, while my brother was entirely indifferent to the

process, as all night I could hear the sounds of anime coming down from his room. My Tato slept

perfectly that night, proud to have built this place on his own, far away from neighbors. He

approved this, and now we all had to as well.

Within the first few days of moving, I debated which colors to paint my room- blue or pink- but

then I went with both. There were now two pink and two blue walls, and regardless of what

others would say when they came into my room, I wanted to make it known that it was mine. I

wanted others to know that “Yes, I am currently an LBQTQ+ curious kid going through a midlife

crisis at thirteen, so what?” Growing up, I was an oddly different kid- nerdy yet sociable, funny

yet serious. I wore different colors and types of clothes, from Batman shirts to complete outfits

with pink polo shirts and blue bow ties. No matter what anyone thought, I felt proud to be

unique. My Tato had his house, and I had my character. Every day he focused on something new

to add to the home, and every day I focused on something new to learn and wear. However, this

transaction became complicated.

After all of the bullying throughout middle school, I had enough. I started straightening my hair,

wearing societal accepted clothing, and closing my door to not let others know about the color of

my walls. I packed away my old clothes and graphic t-shirts and laid them next to the unpacked

boxes of things from my old house. I packed away my feminine accent, and then I eventually

packed myself away in a nice box where I felt accepted. On top of that, I felt embarrassed to live

in my house, a building with red and yellow colors and a Spanish style, different from all the

other homes. No worries; I still had my passion for learning, which meant that all my hobbies of

writing, reading, and acing classes still resided. I concentrated on my studies and became

engrossed in the discovery of stem cell treatments and genetics, completely oblivious to the fact

that I had no idea who I was. And then, once the pandemic hit, my Tato could no longer afford to

finish the house, leaving half of it empty. The plans to add a new couch and garden were laid out

on the kitchen table, and he often sat at it, afraid of what to do next. As for me, I was empty, as

empty as my house. There were many things missing- things that I started to notice were missing

in me. The house was pretty and robust on the outside but disorganized and vacant on the inside.

I realized, however, that I was living up to meaningless expectations that I had reinforced. I

control my own destiny, and I couldn’t put myself in a box for fear of how others would perceive

me. Those fun moments I had, where I bleached my hair randomly and dressed boldly, were

things that I could still do. So, in pandemic fashion, I rebranded myself once again.

I let my hair run wild. I introduced myself again to Spanish literature and experimented with new

concepts and ideas. Although I still wanted to pass my classes with high grades, I participated

and had fun in them for the sake of learning aside from academics. I accepted my quirkiness of

knowing pop culture, exploring the art of dying my hair, embracing my curls, building Legos,

reading Shakespeare, researching stem-cell treatments, and studying medical terminology. From

then on, I became myself again. And along the way, my Tato started to add the finishing touches

to our home. A new couch, a new Lego set I put on my desk. A new garden, a new hairstyle that

I tried. Altogether, we added new furniture, planted new trees and gardens, added pictures of my

family, and opened all the rooms to show that all of my family was proud to live here. Most

importantly, whenever guests enter our house, I make sure that they stop by my room to see the

striking walls and collections of Lego sets and books. My Tato’s persistence to complete this

house rubbed off on me. My persistence to accept the beauty of myself, the beauty of life, and

the beauty of my home ran rampant and grew with the roses in my garden, regardless of the

hurdles along the way with my Mami’s health and then my own.

Now, as I look around the room, I note all the parts of the house that were perfectly made: the

flexible doors built for EMS in case of medical emergencies for my Mami, the arranged chairs

placed perfectly for the TV, and the optimal angle from my room to the kitchen. Crucially, I

notice that my home was built to honor my heritage with its Spanish style. I finally understood

that my home is as beautiful as I am on the inside and outside. My home is now complete, and so am I.

Tú casa solo está tan viva como tú (Your house is only as alive as you are).