model childhood

revisiting the clutter of suburbia

is nostalgia a blessing or a curse?

it's fitting that the person who asks this is a friend i haven't seen in four years; that we ponder about this question in literal circles in my hometown grocery store. we're both in the process of reorganizing the clutter that's accumulated in our childhood homes, and we’ve encountered so many old photos and books that immediately transport us back to our high school days. 

i’ve resisted most invitations to revisit my suburban home, but sorting through my things before its impending sale is a responsibility i can’t ignore. i feel unnecessarily guilty, aware of the physical mess i’ve left behind, all the toys and trinkets that collect dust in my wake. it’s july, the first july i’ve been back in ages, & i sink into the humidity like memory foam.

the week before, i went to simon wu’s book release for dancing on my own. in a witheringly tiny bookshop overstuffed with strangers, he recounts the mess of items accumulated in his old abode. museum curator by day, he’s created a literal exhibit to catalog the decades of clutter in his mother’s suburban garage – model childhood. 

the irony of a curated exhibit on clutter is not lost on me. with this perspective as i waded through all the stuff i needed to pack, i wondered what museum exhibit i could create of my own childhood. viscerally reminded of all the stuff i’ve accumulated. i walk through the house but i’m really tiptoeing round my own mental space, confronting all the questions hidden away in the closet.

what is the best way to contain a memory? 

i used to think photos & videos were sufficient. these digital notions so transportable and shareable. 

but there are so many childhood moments left uncaptured in pictures.

are words the answer? i will probably never reread my old g+ chats, but i pore over birthday cards collected from a flurry of childhood friends, love letters indelible on notebook paper, sticky notes where i wrote i will get an a in algebra over and over again.¹

many memories exist only as objects. my closet door literally un-hinged, consequence of my neighbor and i playing with my room. every stuffed animal i clutched when i couldn’t fall asleep.

i visualize the shape of memory not as solid, but liquid: taking the form of whatever container it fits within, it escapes precision. and that’s why the perfect vase are the objects abandoned. 

how do you choose what to throw away?

confession: i’m a bit of a hoarder. i’m overly saddened by cleaning up: most of my old objects have little practical utility, but how do i quantify the emotional value of an object? there are so many things that keep me tethered to a moment. i hate throwing things out the way i hate deleting photos: i fear that the memory would be lost forever if i can never stumble upon it again. 

even my old wardrobe, as ugly as it was, clings onto its survival. my mirror has seen me do a fashion show a million times, but this time i ”wrap [myself] up in memories and give old clothes a new life.”

what’s no longer there? 

“Whatever you aren’t . . . is what makes you – a house is useful not because its floorboards or ceilings or walls, but because the empty space between them.” (pilgrim bell, kaveh akbar)

suburbanites don’t get a two-story house for love of its physical four walls – rather, they’re drawn to the potential promised by the empty space within. compared to an apartment, think of all the possibilities offered by so much space – you can host parties, you can play instruments, hell, you can play just dance in the living room.  

as much as some rooms overflow, some rooms are notably empty. i tackled so many extracurriculars, many of which didn’t really go anywhere. the music room, gutted, no sign of my out-of-tune grand piano and wood clarinet literally molding from neglect. we’re unlikely to resell my golf clubs and tennis rackets, given that they’re left-handed and effectively useless to 90% of the population.

the one room in my house i really miss is my art room in the basement. it still overflows with vermillion and cerulean blue, stacks of watercolor and oil pastel and colored pencils accumulated over ten years. the neighborhood kids would gather in this room and our art teacher would come to us, bringing fake fruit for still life and mini busts of facial features. there’s a graveyard of old artwork, some half-finished, that each carry a little piece of me.

why do i hate coming back home?

for someone so victim to nostalgia, it’s strange how rare i return to my hometown. maybe it's because im hyperaware of how the past may destroy me, that i tiptoe around these memories, wary of the unresolved tension in these land mines. 

sometimes nostalgia is a curse. i rifle through shoeboxes and each item is a pointer to an instance of myself i can’t return to. each object is animate and screams for attention. my house is never silent; there was always the rice cooker whistling a dainty tune, against the quiet rumble of the laundry machine, the mamma mia movie on repeat as ambient noise while my mom cleaned. 

“Things are needy. They take up space. They want attention, and they will drive you mad if you let them.” in the book of form and emptiness, the main character is tormented by the voices of the objects around him. in a way, i am no different the memories overwhelm me when i am surrounded by clutter.

who really cares? 

my parents moved to the suburbs and built the house when i was born – it’s hard to ignore the parallel between its growth and mine own. my dad itches for pet projects and he tinkered with his baby – redoing the basement, the kitchen, replacing the cupboards. my mom regularly tends to the pool, which was once an excuse to invite friends over and now stands unused. on the way home i drove myself mad: thinking about how this house was a reflection of my lost potential, how there was so much invested in me that never lived up to expectations —

— then i open the fridge and i understand immediately — my guilt exists only in a fantasia, and my immigrant parents have externalized a million times how proud they are for everything i've become.

moments of nostalgia aren’t necessarily productive, but they are important. i allow myself the time and space to wade in my childhood clutter, unpack foregone memories. at the same time, i can’t linger too long; it’s time to tidy up. 

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personal notes:

• this post has been simmering in the drafts for a month !! i feel like i spent more time telling friends about the idea i had, rather than just writing the idea itself. i keep getting distracted by ideas for different posts: unpacking my running hobby, reflecting on my love for english class, the creative process… decision paralysis has struck my writing routine. 

• there’s this incredible piece on “memory fields” by jake skeets… there’s still much i want to explore re: memory in a future piece

• recently i held a substack meetup with my friend Justin Duan — it was a great time and i’m looking to do more hangs for writers in the city! my inbox is open for anyone interested :)

• for my edgy ode-to-suburbia spotify playlist created at the end of high school… see here!

1. manifestation doesnt work i got a D on that test LOL