In the last four years, I have moved four times. Being a college student, this is not exactly unusual. I moved in to my latest apartment in August. Friends and family have complimented my roommates and me on our delicious decorating proficiency. We spent many a day (and many a $20) buying the perfect photos to hang on that empty wall and picking out the perfect candle and flower vases to put on that empty space on the ledge. Our apartment is an exquisite oasis from the demands of college courses. Because of this, it’s always a shock for me to step out my apartment and remember that, oh yes, we live by the railroad tracks.
The railroad tracks are a startling contrast to our beautiful décor and conjure many different reactions in me. I find myself always singing lines from “In the Ghetto” when I exit the building. Other days when people ask me where I live, I try to look tough and respond, “I’m from the wrong side of the tracks.” Some days I even see Natty Gann and John Cusack jumping from train to train on their way out west.
I’ve been on a train only once that I can recall. I remember little of the ride but that we were on a family vacation and I was sharing a seat with only my mom. As I rarely get her to myself, my memory long ago let go of the unimportant details such as where we were, where we were going, what we were talking about. I do remember I was mad at her. Sensitive to a fault, I was “punishing” her for some small slight by not speaking to her. As a truce, she began to tickle my back and sing some made-up song entitled “Erica.” Although I don’t remember whether or not I stopped my ridiculous punishment, I can only hope that I let her off early for good behavior. I want to be worthy of the significance the memory holds in my mind; I want to be worthy of the fact that I had her to myself that morning on the train.
I can’t hear the train whistle from inside my apartment, but some days I almost wish I could.
