Room
I got an e-mail from L the other day. As with me, she finds herself in the dubious
position of living in her parents' basement. She has been there for a few months, now, and she's
starting to wonder what kind of effect it's having on her. In times like this, you turn to others
who have been through a similar experience for advice, hence the e-mail I got. Since I
constantly ramble on about "living in the basement," she wanted to know how it's affected me
and even how it's changed me. It's something I had never really thought of before. In order to
fully understand it, I had to go back to the beginning. I had to go back to the time when I did
have my own room, and the occurrence that had it taken from me.
When I was 4 years old, there was a momentous occasion in the Cappis household: the
birth of my sister. Now, for the most part, this was a sense of joy throughout the family, but for
me, it had a bit of a dark side. For you see, my brother's bedroom had been converted into the
nursery, and my brother was made to move into my room. The next eight years saw my brother
and I sharing a room just slightly smaller than the one I have now. It brought us closer, it drove
both of us crazy, all that good stuff when people are made to share an enclosed space. And then,
in the months before my twelfth birthday, another momentous occasion occurred. We moved.
Finally, I would again have my own room. I'll never forget that first night in the basement. The
walls were bare plywood. There was no carpet yet, just a cold concrete floor. I didn't even have
a door. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was it was MINE. Finally, after all this time, a
room that was MINE.
Of course, as the summer of 1989 dragged on, I added little touches to assert that this
space was mine. I got carpet. The bare plywood was soon covered with posters; some old (some
leftover He-Man and Transformers ones from my swiftly ending childhood) and some new (I had
just become a trekkie, and searched Edmonton hi and lo until I found a Star Trek V movie
poster). The lack of a door did start to bother me after a few months, so Mom made a curtain to
cover the doorway. I finally got a full-blown door in 1992. Oh, you don't know the simple
pleasure of closing your door until you don't have one to close. As time grew, I came to love my
little room. It didn't matter that it was in a basement. It didn't matter that, under the posters, it
was just bare plywood. It didn't matter that I could see the underside of the living room floor. It
was MINE. MY space. MY sanctum. MY room.
And then, the great move to university came. My room was still my room in principle. I
still had a lot of stuff, so that's where the excess was stored. I still slept there whenever I came
home. But it was starting to feel different. The less time I spent there, the less it was feeling
like my room. Where I lived in 2nd East, then Moi, then Marken (Mark's in Marken, oh that
made my sister laugh), that was my room now. With these new rooms, of course, came new
rules. There could be no loud music after nine. You had to share a bathroom with your next
door neighbor. But I could live with those rules. At the end of the day, it was still MINE.
May of 1999 came, and I had no plans as to where to go next. So, I went back to
Entwistle, and that corner in the basement that was my room. But, it wasn't mine anymore. The
posters didn't cover up all the bare plywood anymore. The underside of the living room floor
was starting to hurt my eyes. It wasn't mine anymore. As much as I tried to make it mine again,
it felt cramped. I didn't have as much room as I had in university. And that was the rub. I didn't
want A room anymore. I wanted MORE room.
There are many things that come with living in the basement. Most notable are parents.
With parents come rules, because, when all is said and done, it's their house. In university, I
never took off my shoes. When I wanted to go somewhere, I'd go. At home, I have to take off
my shoes because I'll mess up Mom's carpet if I don't. It I want to go somewhere, it's "Where are
you going? When will you be back? When did you get a life?" At first, it was a little difficult to
comprehend. I had to live with rules when I was at university. These were the exact same rules
I had to live with before university. Why should they be bothering me now? Those who own the
room make the rules.
That's what it comes down to. I've always had just a room. A room in someone else's
home. And it's starting to become painfully obvious of what it really is: a cold basement. I
don't want a basement anymore. I don't want a room to call MINE anymore. What I want is MY
kitchen, MY living room, MY bathroom, MY bedroom. MY room doesn't cut it anymore. I
want a place where I can make MY rules. I don't want a room in someone else's home. I want
MY home.
Right next to my room in the basement is the empty remains of my sister's room. It's
bigger than mine, and I've been tempted to move into it. But I don't. As much as I would like to
have more room, I know that it would start to make me comfortable. And that's a dangerous
thing. As long as I'm still in the smallest room in the house, I'll be tripping over things, knocking
things over, and always cramped. I'll always be just that little bit uncomfortable. And it's that
tiny bit of uncomfort that'll drive me out someday. To MY home.
There was a time when this little corner of the basement was my sanctum; my refuge
from the cruelties of the world. But now, it is just another of the cruelties. As the boxes keep
piling up and the walls appear to grow closer together, what was my room starts to feel more like
a cell. In some ways, it's a negative thing, as it makes me just that much more bitter towards my
life and those around me. But then, it's also a positive thing. I am fully capable of making my
own decisions. The more it makes me uncomfortable, the more I desire to move out. In a way,
it's motivational.
I finished writing this up, and sent it off to L. I was also sure to thank her, as this topic
would make for a great column. Living in the basement has effected me. But it's for the better.
I will escape from this prison, someday. Someday, I will have more than a room to call my own.
Someday, you will all be welcome in MY home.
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