Roommates and Refugees - Can I Live with Someone Again?

The other day a coworker said she wanted to offer housing to refugees in her basement. Me? Being an empty nester since 2011, I think about living with someone often. I’m wondering though, if I could handle a roommate, let alone a family from another part of the world with whom I can’t complain in my own language. See, there is the crux of it, I am pretty sure, I’d not be as open as I’d like whether stranger, friend or lover living with me.
 

Back in the 90s, to mitigate the possibilities of annoyance from personal ruts, my man-friend and I bought a house together. Unfortunately, like freckles and eye color, you take those ruts with you. Long after I’d bought him out, I learned he never felt it was his house. I guess my Girl Scout Hospitality badge had an expiration date.

In college, I remember my boyfriend from out-of-town sneaking into the dorm room I shared with two others in an all-girls dorm. I thought it was exhilarating and fun to have the secret visitor, my roommates told me it got old, like fish, as I remember the discussion. I get their point now. I wasn’t so enlightened then.

And, that’s the other point, forty years later,  I might be ready to make amends. I might be able to say I am sorry for not being aware of the needs of the people around me. More importantly, I think I am willing to bend to other’s needs. At least, now I can talk about it.

I’ve been amazed at families who include more people in their day-to-day living as long term house guests, a nanny or even an older parent. We kidded our friends about their waif du jours… the people they took in who needed a place to stay when a lease was up, or attended grad school on weekend. My friends who had au pairs from the time their child was born till he went off to college. My niece with exchange students from Thailand and Denmark

It took me until Alex could hold his head up for me to truly, completely accept him as a house mate. It was the day I’d waited for since we got pregnant. It came from some (cockeyed) sense of quintessential parenting… riding my bike with him in the bike-carrier. I got him in the carrier, strapped his own baby Bell helmet tightly,  clumsily got my leg over my boy-bar bike and took off. Nearly killed him. We went flying. His 35 pounds in the back, maybe flailing around, threw me completely off balance. Perfect metaphor for life with a housemate that doesn’t leave for 20 some years. You have to get back on and ride again, even with a few asphalt scrapes. That day. That day, I knew there was no turning back and I was in the relationship for the long haul. Off balance and all. I hope I can shorten the learning curve on other housemates.

We grew up with a few waifs of our own. When Castro took over Cuba, my parents took in my dad’s sales representative from Cuba until his family found a place in the US. My cousin, a Detroit undercover police officer, stayed in an upstairs bedroom while he recovered from a gunshot wound received in a battle with the Mafia. He’s the one, before seatbelts were made law, taught me to ride safely by sitting sideways in the front seat and holding my arms taut on the dashboard and the front seat-back.

The cons to living with someone rate no more than annoyances. Things in my space, my things in theirs. Noise and sounds different than what I create. Responsibilities and accountability. My reasons for living with someone for the most part outweigh the negatives. I like coffee brewing-type fragrances, sounds in the house and, if it was that kind of roommate, waking up with someone, I like cooking with and for someone. I like sharing adventures, as simple as a quick walk in the evening, a bike or car ride through neighborhoods, or news of the day.

Over the last couple years, there have been several conversations of Golden Girl house, sharing a home or condo. Money is one factor, it might allow more travel. But, it’s about sharing a space with someone who, as my one friend says, has something going on.   

All my worries can be summed up by an elevator speech, literally- four floors worth with a co-worker, that occurred after writing this today on my commute into work.   Asking about his summer, Robert told me he’s had his daughter for the summer and she is leaving on Sunday. I asked him, “How is that for you?” As the door closed, he looked back at me, “I get the remote back.”