#man I still remember when I first heard his rework back in 2014 and thinking his new voice sounded so squeaky

[antleredoctopus]

Made for Heimerdinger's birthday which makes him 15 years old now! Wanted to include some lil lore and game easter eggs in here.

(I still can't believe I got art of him from way back when he had his ramen block hair...)

[stretchjournalemerson]

What I Call Home: An Exploration of Privilege

By Katherine Healy 

It’s hard to love a place and know a place. The first week of college I brought my newfound friends to the town that I learned to walk in, grew up in, and spent hours upon hours simply existing in. However, I was shocked by their reactions. “This is so beautiful,” “what a place to grow up in,” and “do you know how lucky you are to live here?” were the only sounds in a car where everyone stared out the windows. Although I was shocked, I understood their reactions. The beauty of my town is obvious: blue is smeared across the sky and the sea while green compliments it from below. 

I don’t remember moving to Marshfield, Massachusetts. I think I was able to say “Mom” and “Dad” when I did, but not much else. However, the move from Florida was motivated: my parents were dead set on my future education. I was destined to go to the best of the best. Therefore, I went to a very specific elementary school. Now referred to by many as “The Academy,” usually accompanied by a soft laugh, my school’s name was always associated with prestige in my small town. With only 60 children in my graduation class, we were told for years that we were to achieve great things; how could we not? We were given all the skills, materials, and counseling to do so. However, with small bows in my hair and wide eyes, I never asked why. Why were we the best? The brightest? The most likely to succeed?

Years later, and hopefully years wiser, the reason becomes less pixelated but more nuanced. My elementary school is not as picture-perfect as my parents once believed. While the academics were exactly what my parents always dream of, there was a reason. Marshfield is 95.9% white. And, because of our demographics, our education reflects exactly what we are. We read stories about white characters by white authors in towns that felt eerily similar to Marshfield. We learned whitewashed history and assumed that it was nothing but the truth. We are all smart—we have to be—but in the way that Marshfield wants us to be.

However, this is not my elementary school’s only fault. As one of five elementary schools in my town, imaginary borders were drawn for the district years ago. However, in 2014, these borders suddenly changed. In a shocking school committee vote, Marshfield redistricted, sending 43 students from my elementary school to the neighboring one. While never explicitly mentioned by anyone of status in my town, a rumor about the reason for redistricting has circulated for years. Marshfield wanted to send students with disabilities and IEPs to a different elementary school. Despite this disgraceful and ignorant choice, parents simply talked about the inconvenience the choice established for their families. Cognizant that this is regarded as a rumor, I reached out to my town’s current School Committee Chair. As the student representative for two years for the committee and the chair being my Youth and Government advisor for two years, we developed an honest relationship. Although quickly responding to my first text inquiring about asking about a rumor, he left the question itself unanswered. While this does not concede anything, it is evident that this is not a matter he is interested in discussing. But, in a town built upon ignorance, it's hard to believe the town was destined for anything else. 

Born and raised on stolen Wampanoag territory, my town is a clear reminder of all that is destroyed. Instead of repenting our injustice to the native people, we celebrate the conquers. In second grade we took a field trip to Edward Winslow’s house--located in the center of my town and the site of a Senior Leader of Plymouth Colony. We learn the history of a man who built his livelihood on top of other people’s, crushing them with each movement. Then, a year later in third grade, we traveled to Plimoth Plantation to learn about the peaceful relationship between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag people. They leave out the genocide part. So, how does a town get to be so ignorant? So unaware of their own faults? 

Ultimately, it comes down to one word: privilege. But, for many in Marshfield, that word sits funny in their mouth. Unpacking one’s own privilege is never easy. For me, it included nights crying and reworking and reflecting on everything I had ever known. However, people in conservative Marshfield view it as a deeming and demanding word. When called out, people go on the attack: “you’re making me seem like a bad person” and “I’ve never had it easy” usually perforate the conversation about privilege. Because, to many, Marshfield is not the epitome of privilege, instead it is the definition of blue-collar life. While Marshfield is not racially diverse, it is certainly socioeconomically diverse. 

Like many other coastal Massachusetts towns, people settle in: they build homes for generations to live in and they create careers for their children to work in. Their way of life is specific, and, more often than not, predescribed. They labor day in and day out to provide for their family. Even to my own extremely liberal family, privilege is a gritty topic. My mother grew up surrounded by poverty. With a paralyzed father, eight siblings, and sporadic foster children, money was tight. My mom recounts molasses sandwiches for dinner and years where Christmas was postponed because they couldn’t even afford their typical Charlie Brown tree. When you are questioning your next meal it’s hard to believe you are privileged. However, on the opposite side of the same spectrum, exists my father. Born and bred in a high-class white tower, my father’s biggest problem was that his real-estate developer father did not attend his high school hockey games. Although I am not minimizing the effect that had on him, he has never even heard of this discussion--nevermind participated in it. So, when socioeconomic status gets filtered into the intersectional conversation surrounding privilege—how do you navigate? My parents chose to meet in the middle. Now living a life of middle class blissfulness, they never have to have this conversation. The problem isn’t that they’re unaware, it’s that they never have to be.   

Upon reflection, I often wonder, was my education worth it? Was an “astonishing” reading level even worth it? How could I have truly learned if I was in a tower of privilege? The walls of this tower were covered in mirrors; everywhere I looked there were just reflections of myself. 

But, despite all these unanswered questions, it’s still home. I still wake up in the middle of the night longing for what used to be. I still get homesick for the sea. My best, most treasured memories exist between Marshfied’s sea walls. When I turned eight my grandmother painted a picture of me. On the canvas it was me with hair as bouncy and red as ever, but slowly growing. Three versions of me exist in the painting: each older than the last, but all in Marshfield. When I drive down the picturesque streets of Marshfield, I see each version on the streets. I see little me: happy as a clam on my elementary school playground. I see the next me: curious and bright in my town library. Finally, I see the last me: head down and ashamed, seeing Marshfield for all it will ever be. Not pictured is the fourth me: aware of what Marshfield is but still loving it, nevertheless. 

Youthful ignorance is exactly that. It is head tilted back from laughing and a hazy glow from the moon. It is nights where there is no destination but joy in every right and left turn. It is the ability to fall and scrape your knees with no consequences. It is reading until odd hours of the morning with your bedroom window open and crickets chirping. The feeling never goes away. I will always, infinitely be young and in Marshfield. I will always be wonderstruck by my own youth--and the consequent ignorance.

When people talk about home, they don’t talk about the piece of you that’s left there. In my case, that piece is nurtured and ignorant, blind to the world around her. However, it’s still me. It’s still a phantom limb I feel every day. But, I was only able to reflect by leaving. At Emerson, with its discussions and unpacking, I am able to witness, and sometimes participate, in conversations that weren’t even ideas in Marshfield. I am able to learn from stories and perspectives that are diverse, creating an education that is authentic rather than binary and whitewashed. I am able to grow as a person. I still can’t answer all the questions. Because of the foundation I was given, I have more to learn than my peers. But, I am learning nevertheless. So, I will always love Marshfield. I will always long for it's comforting embrace. Yet, I see it clearer now. I see it for everything it will ever be. 

Works Cited

“Parents React to Marshfield Redistricting Plan.” The Patriot Ledger, Quincy, MA: Local News, Politics, Entertainment & Sports in Quincy, MA. Accessed November 5, 2019. https://www.patriotledger.com/article/20140304/news/140308650?template=ampart.

“U.S. Census Bureau QuickFacts: Marshfield Town, Plymouth County, Massachusetts.” Census Bureau QuickFacts. Accessed November 5, 2019. https://www.census.gov/quickfacts/fact/table/marshfieldtownplymouthcountymassachusetts/AGE295218.

Acknowledgements

With such a personal essay, it is hard not to get personal with my thanks. First, to the people that read my essay: Sophia and Noah. Both of your writing inspires me as both a writer and editor. You remind me, constantly and consistently, why I am pursuing this and why it is what I have always wanted. Sometimes, when you are an editor, no one really cares about your work. But, both of you continue to show an unprecedented amount of care towards my work. In regards to the essay itself, I have to thank its inspiration. Thank you to my parents for always being transparent with your faults. You have taught me to grow from your mistakes and my own. And, most of all, thank you to my muse: Marshfield. Thank you for letting me love you and leave you. Thank you for all the love and all the bruises. I will be forever a part of you.