DIGITAL STORIES

No Home Leroy (Fuck Home)

By Malik Nashad Sharpe


I am beginning to think that I will never feel at Home anywhere, not in my body, not in this city, not on this planet, never. And just like that, my thoughts are interrupted by LeRoy who is shouting at his mirror-image. A little devil on my left shoulder.


‘Fuck that shit, my nigga’


For Leroy, ‘Home’ is not a viable option.


‘None of that feel-good sissy shit, my nigga

We are both the Hero and the Villain…’


Leroy states emphatically…


‘...And there ain’t no Home big enough to hold both those things, ya feel me’, says Leroy.


I get it. Home is something that already is. It is an inherent thing. More than we would think initially. The Body is the Home of the Soul. The Eye Socket is the Home of the Eye. Your Breath is the Home of your Life. The Heart is the Home of Everything.


And your Light.


And Every place has its own place and every territory that is carved out from the ground (from what is inherent) and into the sky (from what is both imagined and reality).


So, for what kind of person is Home not something to be sought?


‘Fuck Home!’


‘That ain’t something I seek’, Leroy snaps back


But he doesn’t break.


Home may not be something to be sought but it is existence. So, to say ‘Fuck Home’ is to say what is unthinkable, to speak what is unspeakable. It is to crack open the concept of Home itself. To break it down, to destroy its foundations. But for a worthy purpose. It is to create the possibility of freedom where it might not fully exist. What if ‘Home’ breaks your heart? Dims your light? Builds a wedge between you and your best self? To ‘Fuck Home’ is to create a most purposeful fissure, to enlighten a most difficult pathway towards one ultimate conclusion.


Home isn’t everything. But you are.


And even when it is said that Home isn’t something to be sought, something that one can, or cannot cultivate, or sit with: We will seek it anyway. So, what else can it be? What other purpose does it serve in our lives? In my life?


I am interrupted again by Leroy, who for all intents and purposes, is a petit devil permanently perched atop my shoulder.


‘Niggas ain’t ever had freedom, just the illusion of freedom. And Niggas ain’t ever had a Home here, just the illusion of Home,’ Leroy, malcontented, states frankly.


And it's true. We ain’t ever been free. We ain’t ever been human to so many. And ‘Home’ will not make us free. But that doesn’t mean we give up on the idea. But I get why I have. If you’ve never understood what it meant, if you’ve never felt it on your skin, if you’ve never felt its security, or what it means to belong, or even felt it in the depths of your heart, how would you know what it is, or what it looks like?



‘Boy, you ain’t gonna be free until the Hand of the Lord calls you Home…’


Says another voice crashing down on top of his house like waves, waves, waves.


This voice is the Home of Depression.


And just like that there is a sense of calm that rings like a bell around this room. As if touched by the Hand of the Lord itself, even just to remind us that there is something further to this misery. To this despairing and disparaging viewpoint. Like a melodic song rambunctiously repeating its melody, perkily perched on top of a feelgood dance track. Like a light at the end of a dark and dampened tunnel.


‘And...you already got a Home, you should feel so lucky that you even Got a Home, Homie. There’s people out here sleeping on these Streets and you tryna say you ain’t got a Home. And that you ain’t want one. Or can’t get one. Or whateva.’


The Home of Depression is a cunning creature. At first glance, you would think it was an Angel, a shining light, a saviour. But the Home of Depression is a Prison.


‘You are prisoner to your own mind,’ says the Home of Depression.


It continues, gently but assertively.


‘Any Home is a Prison

And here are our abolitionist allies

Who are also the Police Officers themselves.

Home can be Home. Home can be a shelter.

Home can be every little fucking thing underneath this sun.

But Home can also be a Prison. It can be a Trap.

It can be the very place where you erase yourself without purpose.

Because sometimes there ain’t no Home that exists for niggas like you

For People Like Us


And let me say it again


We ain’t ever had Freedom

Baby, you right

But by your own logic

Freedom is also within you grasp

Freedom can be here and not yet-here

You could be here and not-yet-here if you wanna be

Freedom can be Home and it can not be Home

Knowing Home

Wanting Home

Needing Home

Does not have to mean fucking the idea

Entirely

You don’t gotta Fuck Home

Entirely

Because Home is where the Heart is

And you will always have that

Leroy.’