maybe i'll ask Freud.

I’m not home sick. The past two weeks and impending finals have kept my focus from everything except J.M. Coetzee, post-apartheid South Africa, rape, lesson plans, and how to convince my professor that Buffy the Vampire Slayer is worthy of academic inquiry. Evidently the landslide of scholarship isn’t an effective sell.

It’s not that I don’t miss my family and friends. I do. Dearly. But location wise, my brain’s in charming Boston with the rest of my freezing body.

Last Thursday, the freezing bodies of my classmates and I convened in our classroom located in the sinking, mold-infested humanities building, just as we’ve done every Thursday night for four months. We sit at a rectangular table in a room that doubles as some kind of banquet hall. We know this because of the crumbs and empty water pitchers.

I brushed the proof of earlier meetings from my chair and settled in for an evening of presentations. I gave mine the week before, which was kind of a disaster. Maybe “disaster” is a little dramatic. My classmates were interested in Buffy, but my professor was disconnected and critical. And I, poor public speaker that I am, sat hunched and angular and digging at my palms like a meth addict, trying to explain Spike’s gender as performance. And we know it’s not just Spike, right? It’s everyone. But Spike’s fascinating. And sexy.

But I’d paid my dues, so I sat back and listened to my classmates discuss Willa Cather, Edith Wharton, and James Joyce. J began his presentation on architecture and its role in literature. His handout circulated while I dug through my bag for a working pen.

Then in J’s very gravely, very Boston voice, he said, “Whitney, I put Salt Lake City as a shout-out to you.”

Next to maps of Dublin, London, and Denver was Salt Lake City in all its grid-like, Mormon landscape glory. I ran my finger from one landmark to the next. Temple Square, Pioneer Park, the Salt Flats, and the Delta Center. Redwood Road. Places I’ve been; places rich with texture and steeped in memory. I wanted to grab B’s hand and sit on the floor with my legs crossed and tell him about my first Jazz game, or about taking a nasty spill in Temple Square while racing to Meghan’s wedding.

I haven’t been able to shake the strangeness of Salt Lake City in a Boston classroom. It’s a collision I hadn’t expected, and I still can’t make sense of why I got so sentimental and a little protective. And why, for a moment, I wanted to tell someone, anyone, about my Utah narrative.

J and I hopped the same elevator after class where we both expressed general relief that class is over. “And hey," I said, "thanks for the shout-out."

“Little bit a home, huh?”

Little bit of home.