Jeff for America

I’m back in Philadelphia – and without a doubt I feel like I’m back home. It’s strange living in such a different city, so far away from where I’ve spent most of my life. In some ways, Philadelphia will never feel familiar enough to be home. But because of its newness, it’s become all my own. The streets, the parks, the people – no one back in California knows about any of it. So when I come back here, it feels special. My own little world. And in that way, it kind of feels like home.

My recent Philadelphia homecoming got me to thinking about the labels we attach to the places we live.

I often refer to Sacramento as my home-home – double hyphened to emphasize the fact that this is my native home. The singular home then becomes practically anywhere else. I’ve caught myself many times on vacation calling my hotel room my home. “I’m getting tired of walking around, let’s go home.” It’s funny, since I usually think of home as having an elevated meaning to me. I suppose we are creatures of basic necessity. All we really need to survive is a shelter and food. Everything else – the streets, the parks, the people – it’s all just extra. And I suppose that’s the difference right there. You can find a home anywhere you go (which is kind of reassuring), but you’ve got to find those special touches to make it home.

Philadelphia is home. Sacramento is home. I should just drop the hyphen and thank my lucky stars I’ve got two.