Int. Teenage bedroom - Night
Ayana sits in her bedroom exhausted to death, writing her college essay.
The calendar marks September 6th, 2001. I was born in Philadelphia, PA and I lived there for 9 years. I don’t remember a lot, but I know I spent most of my childhood looking for dolls and knick-knacks in old stores with my grandma.
One day, my mother decided that she wanted to get a law degree at Suffolk Law University in Boston, MA. I had to say good-bye to my grandma, my friends, the woods that peacefully sat next to my house, and the stillness of the suburbs that was accompanied by nearby trains speeding down old tracks.
Adjusting to new places takes time and patience. Something that I felt I didn’t have as a 9 year old. But as I got older, I got comfortable with living in Cambridge, MA. During my freshman year, I took film classes at The Community Art Center across from my house. My goal was to write and create movies that queer people, mostly in the black and brown community could resonate with. As I was going into my sophomore year, I took a screenwriting course over the summer at Stanford University. I met other queer people who had the same ideas as me. After this experience, I realized that I could find sanctuary in things that I love and places I feel safe in. When I was at Stanford, I absorbed all of my interactions with people along with the things I learned. It made me feel a special kind of security that I’ve never felt before.
Int. Classroom 112 - Morning
A dry and quiet classroom stands in Kendall Square.
I’ve never been the kind of person to stay in one place. It’s my sophomore year of High School and the chemistry room is cold. I hate chemistry and I hate cold rooms. Stories that I wanted to write fly around my head. I’m jumping from one thing to the next like a monkey on a tree. My notebook is filled with dialogue, sceneries, and strange people I’ve made up. After school, I took the same route home that I always did. I walked past the Cambridge Police Department, crossed the street, passed the many stores, restaurants, and MIT buildings in Kendall Square, crossed the street again, walked by my local bank, and I’m home. The home I knew best. I lived in public housing since 7th grade at that time and the longer I lived there, the more I hated it. The house was empty and quiet. My mother had moved to Chicago with my siblings because she got a new job. It was only me, my dad, and the occasional rats that paraded our kitchen.
Int. Dining Room - Morning, Evanston, IL
One day after a long night, I sat with my two best friends at my dining room table, took out my computer, and wrote, “The different ways that I see home”. I filmed my friends and took notes on the ways they discovered themselves and found tranquility in the things around them. It sparked this flaming idea in my head that no matter how far I traveled or where I originated from, where I moved. Home was where I felt safe, comfortable, and warm. Home is holding my cheap camera in my hand and filming my friends, smiling and dancing. Home is the old antique stores I went to as a kid. Home is Harvard st., home is story-telling. As hard as adjusting to new environments were, they taught me that I can adapt easily anywhere I go, even if it’s scary to me. At the end of the day, I could always write and create my own environment that I felt peace in.
Fade out:
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