They say you can’t go home again. While this may be a surprise to anyone who has ever spent some time living out of mom’s basement (and who hasn’t?), it is generally considered a truism. Like many truisms, it is also obviously untrue on its face. Of course you can go home, unless the place has been swallowed by a sinkhole or had a mall built over it. I mean, the place is probably still there right? You just might not be welcome anymore. That can lead to some nasty business involving guard dogs and restraining orders, generally ruining your memorial day weekend. But I digress.
The point of the saying is, I guess, that places may not change, but people do. Still, I wonder if even that is true? I had the opportunity to put this to the test the other night, when I gave a theatrical performance at my old Alma Mater, Ithaca College. Just about a month shy of 25 years after my graduation, I found myself performing on the same stage where I, as a youth, had seen so many musicians, comedians and performers ply their trade a quarter century ago. While I like to think I acquitted myself nicely and put on a show that was, arguably, funnier than that of some comedians I witnessed in that space, it was, indeed, a strange homecoming.
When last I had been in that room I was a young man, a boy really, full of wild dreams and bursting with ambition. Now I was a man (or at least a manchild) creeping up on 50, looking out at a world that once was and pondering the thousands of days and tens of thousands of decisions, that turned that boy into me.
I did not feel the way I expected to. I had thought, frankly, that this would be just another show. Another night in a role I had played 50 times or more. The easiest thing in the world. Instead, it was a night full of ghosts. Shadows of friendships neglected or forgotten. Phantoms of campus romances long since fizzled. A sudden longing for a Rogan’s pizza (I recommend getting pepperoni and black olive. Tastes great and nobody ever tries to steal a slice because of the black olives) or a trip to the commons.
But chief among these specters, these remnants of the past, was that of me. A dirt poor kid, who never had anything to rely on except brains and raw talent, suddenly let loose into a larger world. A kid who was gonna make movies the whole world would want to see. A skinny, gangly, youth who knew, even when times were dark, that his inspiration would never fail him. That there would always be another character, another line of dialogue, another fresh perspective on the world. A young man who could crank out a thirty page script in a five hour, Mountain Dew fueled, frenzy of typing and find that it needed little or no editing. The same kid who is now struggling to grind out these few paragraphs.
I was unstoppable then, and yet, somehow, I was stopped. I don’t really know why that is. The unfailing inspiration failed, I guess. I never did any of those things I thought would come so easy. I didn’t reinvent the world of cinema and I have yet to see my name up on shining marquees. I almost certainly will not retire to riches untold and universal acclaim. My legacy will be somewhat different. But, looking back, I have done some work that I am proud of and I hope to do more.
They say you can’t go home again but I don’t believe that is true. For that young man, who shares my headspace, Ithaca College was as much of a home as any place he had ever known. What I found out upon my “triumphant” return was that it still felt like home. I have a new home now, full of those that I love, and that is as it should be, or else my life would truly have been a failure. But there is a power in a place where you first came to know yourself, and that power persists through the long years. The other night, when I stepped out of the van onto that campus, I felt the same thing I felt when I was 18 years old and first looked out from the hilltop over that unmatched view of Cayuga lake. A sense of wonder and possibility and of serenity as well. And, for a while, he was with me again, that confident and unstoppable youth I have spent so much of my adult life trying to find. For I know that he is still in me, somewhere, and still has much to offer. This trip down memory lane, though melancholy, served to remind me how close he truly is.
So, I say you can go home, and you should as often as possible. Unless there is a restraining order. Then you might want to skip it.