The suburb where I grew up was dubbed ‘the ghetto’. I didn’t tell friends where I lived

“Home sweet home.”

“Home is where the heart is.”

“There’s no place like home.”

“A childhood home is often assumed to be, and should be, a place of safety, security, and nurturing,” says clinical psychologist and author Dr Rebecca Ray. Credit: Marija Mandic / Stocksy United

Growing up, as I watched Dorothy navigate the hazards of the yellow brick road and the land of Oz in her desperate quest to get back to Kansas, these positive sentiments – of our homes carefully holding our hearts – seemed at odds, at least for some of the time, with my reality.

“A childhood home is often assumed to be, and should be, a place of safety, security, and nurturing,” says clinical psychologist and author Dr Rebecca Ray. “It ideally provides a stable environment where children can grow, learn and develop and have their emotional, psychological and physical needs met. It’s a space where they should feel loved, supported and free to be themselves.”

In my experience, much of Ray’s definition of an ideal childhood home applied to my own. My home was a safe place, and I felt secure, nurtured, loved and supported within its walls – a privilege that not everyone experiences and one I do not take for granted. But as I got older, it also brought a sense of embarrassment, even shame, that gradually changed the relationship I had with my home into one that was much more complicated.

From age four until I left home at 17 for university, I lived in a small, modest brick dwelling in a housing commission area of a Victorian regional city. My single mum had bought the house, one of the few that were privately owned and not part of public housing, in a suburb that was dubbed everything from “the ghetto” to “dodgy”, and whose residents were labelled “westies”, “derros” and names much crueller.

I never had a friend ‘unfriend’ me because of my address, but many still made comments, often framed as ‘jokes’ about my neighbourhood.

The section I lived in backed onto a pine plantation, which acted as a border to the factory behind it and did nothing to hide the billowing smoke or mask the foul smell of food-processing chemicals that clouded the air above it. The streets were littered with shopping trolleys, graffiti decorated the often-broken fence panels, car frames sat up on blocks in the front yards of neighbouring properties and stray cats stalked the footpaths.

For most of my primary school life, these scenes were naively and non-judgmentally accepted. However, the older I got, the more observant I became. As I entered adolescence, it became clear that this wasn’t how everyone’s – especially my friends’ – neighbourhoods looked.

My self-consciousness flourished, fed by never-ending derogatory remarks – from kids, adults, teachers and friends – about the area where I lived. Often the remarks were made by people who were unaware that this was my neighbourhood.

As an insecure teen trying to fit in, this proved complicated. It changed the perception of my home from one filled with love to one that was more like a shameful secret.

I was reluctant to invite friends around, or even tell them where I lived. It usually wasn’t until I was confident in our friendship that this detail was revealed, but still, I asked myself: “Would they come, knowing where I lived? Would they think differently about me?”

I never had a friend “unfriend” me because of my address, but many still made comments, often framed as “jokes” about my neighbourhood, and weren’t apprehensive about doing this in my presence. “Diamond in the rough,” an ex-boyfriend called me. “In the ghetto,” a friend sang, impersonating Dolly Parton every time he dropped me home or picked me up. “How many shopping trolleys can we count today?” a parent of a good friend would say as she entered my street, as if it were some sort of game.

I would always smile or laugh along, but the truth is, these comments hurt. They rubbed salt in an already very open wound.

So, when I left home at 17, in many ways it was a relief. Not because of who, or what, I was leaving – my mum, love, security – but because I would be living somewhere that didn’t bring with it this stigma, and that was exceptionally freeing.

I wish I too could have felt this way, had those memories, and shared my life more openly. How lucky they are.

Over the years, close friends have shared the news that their family homes were being sold. Some parents were opting for a sea- or tree-change, heading north to somewhere warmer; others were downsizing or going into care. While all of my friends had different sentiments about this, depending on the reasons for the sale, what they did share was sadness, a grief about this symbolic marking of the end of one of the most significant eras of their lives.

One friend, Elizabeth, began to cry as she told me how her family came together to farewell their home of 40 years.

“We walked together as a group, going room to room and sharing memories of our times within them – funny stories from childhood, or of accidents we had. We looked at my sisters’ and my height markings – from toddlers to adults – on the inside of the laundry door. Then we all went back around by ourselves. When we did this, we all became silent. It was really strange, yet also powerful, as if we were paying our respects to a family member we’d lost, which in many ways was how it felt.”

In an article for The Atlantic, Faith Hill wrote about her connection to her childhood home, one so deeply rooted that she resisted her mum’s effort to sell it, attempting to prolong her affection and the nostalgia that existed within its walls.

“In a drawer in the living room of my childhood home, you can find the drumsticks I got in elementary school, the calculator I used in middle school, and a to-do list I wrote in high school. (‘Shoes – tell mom,’ it reads, and, in all caps: ‘CUT NAILS’.) In my bedroom are prom pictures, concert posters, a photo of my round-faced teen self printed for a fake ID I never got. In the bathroom: expired acne medication; crunchy, dried-up mascara; an old retainer. My mother, who still lives in the house, would like me to clear out my stuff. I keep stalling.

“The funny thing is, I’m not all that attached to these objects. I could throw most of them away after a few moments of bemused recollection; the pictures, I could take back with me to Brooklyn. But that would make it possible for my mom to sell the house, which she’s been trying to do for years. I can’t seem to stop standing in the way,” Hill writes.

Reading Hill’s insights and hearing those from friends – beautiful and intense connections with a key part of childhood – fills me with a multitude of emotions. A sense of confusion – how can someone be so attached to a home? Pangs of jealousy – I wish I too could have felt this way, had those memories, and shared my life more openly. How lucky they are. And, finally, a sense of loss, of missing out on something so special.

In 2017, when my mother decided to sell her house – our house – her announcement triggered an ambivalence within me. Friends of mine had shared how utterly heartbreaking this experience was. But even though this was the only home she ever owned – my only family home – I didn’t feel the same. Instead, I felt emotions at both ends of the spectrum simultaneously.

Dr Ray says this isn’t uncommon. “A person can have fond memories of their childhood home yet feel relieved to move on or out. This can happen because our relationships with our homes are multifaceted and tied to various stages of our personal development.

“Our relationships with our family homes are complicated because they encompass a broad range of emotions, experiences and personal growth trajectories,” she says.

Once the house was sold, the belongings were boxed up and moved to their new destination, the keys handed over. Like my friend Elizabeth, I toured my childhood home one last time, looking at each room, opening every door, and reflecting.

As I walked down the driveway, observing the sold sticker on the for-sale sign, I knew I’d never forget the joyous memories I’d made in my home and its backyard. I would remember jumping for hours on the trampoline – that sense of freedom, of flying without any obstacles in your way. I’d remember decorating my room – plastering TV Hits posters on my walls and listening to Mariah Carey on repeat on my CD player as a teen. I’d remember quiet nights playing board games in the loungeroom with my mum.

At the same time, neither will I ever forget the disparaging comments and how they made me feel.

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