It's My House, and I Live Here

When I was in sixth grade I had teacher named Miss Patterson. I don’t remember her first name but it might have been Kristen. I also don’t remember what she taught; in my mind it was Language Arts because that was my favorite subject, but it could have easily been math or history. I loved her. She was an enormous stickler for grammar and neatness, and smart as a whip (which is absolutely an expression she would have used). She had a row of desks called ‘The Swingin’ Singles’ where she made misbehaving children sit, and I got sent there multiple times. This was one of my first experiences with discipline and public shame; the first time a teacher ever told me I wasn’t living up to her standards. It had a profound effect on me, the fact that she didn’t let me get away with things just because I was smart. It was one of the first times I felt that praise is not the same as love.

9/11 also happened when I was in sixth grade, and one of my few memories of the day is that I went straight to Miss Patterson’s classroom, even though we were supposed to be gathered in the cafeteria. I vividly remember her sitting in her desk chair, crying and holding her hands to her face, staring up at the enormous Zenith TV on which we usually watched morning announcements. I had already heard the news, but this image of her is what made me feel the magnitude of the tragedy.

As much as I adored her, there was one thing that consistently puzzled me about Miss Patterson: she lived alone, was unmarried, had no children. This was confusing to me as I could see no reason for this, in my limited worldview at the time. I have no idea what her actual age was, but I’d estimate that she was in her 40s when she taught me, which seemed truly ancient. She spoke often about her own little house, about the projects she was doing in it and the joy she took from small things. She used the expression ‘puttering around’ a lot; it was the first time I’d ever heard it and I always thought ‘Patterson putters.’ to myself.

I remember specifically that she updated the class over a period of several weeks about edging the sides of her yard, enumerating on the satisfying outcome of a straight, orderly line of grass against the sidewalk. When she talked about that line of grass I always stared at her bangs, which were also arranged in the most straight, orderly line of individual strands that you could ever imagine. For whom did she arrange these things, her hair and the grass? She was alone. Miss Patterson’s spinster status and the meticulous caretaking of her home seemed absolutely incomprehensible to me. It was another formative encounter with what I perceived to be a tragedy–this one on a smaller, more intimate scale.

Over this past year I have repeatedly thought, sometimes with waves of warm nostalgia and sometimes with absolute horror, that I have grown to become Miss Patterson. I bought a house (okay, it’s a condo) and live alone in it, something I never could have pictured for my adult self when I was in sixth grade. The house itself is small and neat, comprised of simple primary paint colors and straight lines. It has natural light and neutral decor, and the built-in bookshelves I have always dreamed of. It is not unlike the home in which I pictured Miss Patterson in my mind’s eye; something made for one woman, an anomaly amongst the suburban family homes I was used to.

Like Miss P, I also putter. I am preoccupied by what is on shelves, moving small objects back and forth all day. I have been cataloging all the photos I own by date and location; I have arranged my books by genre and alphabetically. I sweep overly frequently, like a cartoon character. Repotting plants is on my to do list. Recently I found a mouse trap in my basement rafters that I didn’t put there, and felt terror strike my heart. I am alone. I feel this often, with varying tonality.

Also like Miss P, puttering around this home brings me true joy and warmth, and even gives me a sense of pride – I struggle to find many things that make me feel that way nowadays. I like to lie down by myself on the floors of the house, in a patch of light coming through the front door or underneath the glitter of my tree at Christmas. That’s actually the first thing I did when I got the keys: unlocked the door, went upstairs to the bedroom, sprawled out on the empty hardwood floor. It’s sort of a grounding ritual. I wonder if Miss Patterson ever did that.

Postscript: I should state that I am aware of my enormous privilege to have a home, and my awareness that not everyone shares this experience, most often due to factors and systemic cruelty that have nothing to do with individuals and everything to do with an unjust society. Organizations created to combat homelessness are struggling right now due to the virus, and could use the help of those able to give it. I donated to this Pittsburgh-based women’s shelter upon the completion of this piece, I encourage anyone reading who has the means to do so to do the same.

Also shout out to my mom Kim Fisher, who was my kickass realtor when I bought this home and who fought for her client (me) every step of the way.