The Importance of Place

Alien has this nasty habit of playing his games at full volume.  And even if he has headphones on, the excitement of League of Legends often pushes him to speak over the perceived volume of his surroundings.  I groaned.  I was hoping to stay in my pajamas all day, but I had ten more pages to write (and edit?) before five, and I had slept in til eleven. Grudgingly, I threw on some real clothes, grabbed Pikachu and my favorite hoodie, cranked the old Mark VII to life, and headed for my local Scooters.

I’ve been in and out of coffee shops for the past couple of weeks to write papers.  There are several here in my city that serve my purposes, but I find myself drawn constantly to the Scooters.  It’s a bit odd, when I think about it really.  The Coffee House and The Mill and Crescent Moon are all beautiful places, filled with local charm and fellow students.  So why the Scooters?  Why do I vote with my time and money for this chain instead of the places so belovedly labeled as “local”?

Part of it has to do with the drinks.  The Scooter’s flagship store was walking distance from my high school, and it was there that I first learned to suck down caffeinated bean juice.  Since the first ever Scooters was in my hometown, I always felt a small piece of pride for choosing them over Starbucks (who to this day I claim makes drinks that are too harsh, too sugary, and over all sub par to my beloved chain).  In a sense, every Scooter’s feels like a piece of home to me.  A place where I’m safe, and connected to community.

Places have always had a special significance to me.  When I dream, I remember settings better than I do characters or plots.  When I was given a choice to do my grading conference in my teacher’s office or at a local coffee shop, I sighed with relief and signed up for the coffee shop immediately.  I knew that in a relaxed atmosphere, with a random collection of fellow caffeine addicts, that I wouldn’t feel so pressured to perform.  There was just something about a professor’s office.  No matter how many trinkets and pictures of grandchildren they have, the oppressing, judging weight of their bookshelves, filled with knowledge I didn’t have always feels imposing.  I feel like a baby kitten newly adopted, brought home with the promise of a loving family, only to discover the crazy old tomcat they also own.  No matter how welcome they claim I am, I know that I’m on their turf.

Visiting places from my childhood have a stronger sense of nostalgia than objects, scents, or sounds from those times.  Going back to my elementary school to perform as a show choir in high school was a charming moment for me.  It was more than just giving back to my old teachers and inspiring the young dreamers: it was the trading of space.  Instead of sitting in the audience, I was performing on those squeaky cork and metal risers.  There was a beauty to that role reversal that I’ve never quite been able to explain, but I certainly think the space played an important role.

My mother would probably laugh if she knew how important my room was to me growing up.  It always looked like a wreck.  There were brief pauses for the carpet to breathe (once at the beginning of school, once at spring cleaning), but otherwise the only way to move was by following the trails that led to the closet, the dresser, and my bed.  But my room, every one I’ve had, has been an important place for me.  It’s a place that I can quietly be me, without having to speak or prove myself to anyone.  A place where I can ignore the world, and meditate on my own writing, reading, and faith.

Perhaps that is why moving into the dorms was so strange to me.  As much as I loved Captain Planet (soul roomies for life yo), living with her meant that “my” space became “our” space.  I was forced to find other places in which I could find quiet time for my soul.  I felt a certain pride in discovering writing in coffee shops.  I had never been able to think or act privately in a public place.  And yet now, as I sing along with the Christmas music to the annoyance of my fellow patrons, I know that I have honed that skill to perfection.
So Alien, I hope that you are enjoying your game of League of Legends, shouting at your brother and best friend over Ventrillo to stop feeding towers and not calling MIA.  In the meantime, I’ll suck down my favorite flavored bean juice, and relish my ability to be at peace with myself in the noise of the anonymity.