The American's Home

October 8th, 2021: In the heart of Hartford, Connecticut, The Mark Twain House & Museum wait to be discovered by visitors and folks like me who lived practically right next door and never knew to drop in.

"I am not an American. I am the American." - Mark Twain.

He was born on November 30th. I was born on November 29th. He was a prolific writer, and so am I. He considered himself the American, and so do I. Samuel Clemens, more commonly known as Mark Twain, is a kindred spirit of mine.

That's his dream home up there. He had it built in Hartford, Connecticut, and lived there with his family from 1874 - 1891. I lived in West Hartford throughout my college years and never knew his home was next door till well after graduation.

Sometimes when I feel nostalgic for my glory days, I breeze through town. Sometimes I'll park my car and stay a while for a surreal glimpse into days gone by.

I love how I still know that city's streets as well as I know my hometown's. I can't get lost there. And no matter how long it's been, my mind picks up right where it left off without missing a beat.

So naturally, when I turned onto Farmington Avenue—a road I drove at least once a week for four years—I couldn't believe that this familiar street was going to take me someplace I'd never been—a place I didn't even know existed.

I took Farmington Avenue less than a quarter mile further than I'd been before, and there it was, as if just slightly out of reach for the former years of my life, as though I was destined to experience it without ties to my crazy college days, and only bonded to my Twain-inspired life of today.

I passed Clemens Place on my way to Sam's place, and suddenly my brain made a new connection. I used to visit friends who lived in Clemens Place and never knew it was named because Samuel Clemens' home was right next door. It was such an ah-ha moment.

I live a life Mr. Clemens would be proud of. I feel the pride he emanated when he said he is not an American, he is the American. I believe I hold that same honor. If ever there were an advocate for all 50, who sings the praises of these wonderful places for all that they are beyond their borders, political leans, and preconceived notions, it is me. I chose to be, but the calling chose me.

It's the kind of advocacy that's been brewing within me since I was a child—a natural-born great defender of those who were unfairly judged. I am equipped to see past warts and wounds, crimes and connotations. I've always loved seeing beauty where the masses just saw a slum or flyover state—not that those exist.

And it's here in a town I thought I'd experienced all there was to enjoy that I rediscovered a new wonder to cherish. It was like listening to one of your all-time favorite albums for the millionth time and discovering a hidden bonus track you'd never heard before. I thought I had slurped up all Hartford had to offer, but my buddy Mark Twain had other plans for me.

Picture-taking inside Mark's home was prohibited—I have only my misty memories and some handwritten notes for refreshers. However, one thing that left a mark on my mind was how dark and ornate the foyer was. Everything was lined with the darkest wood, and very little natural light was filtering in, but there were mother-of-pearl accents from floor to ceiling designed to brighten the space by reflecting light. I found that fascinating.

The foyer, in particular—the core of the house—was still incredibly dark, and even though the lack of light had a heaviness to it, the feeling wasn't oppressive. Instead, it was more insular—almost protective. Once the front door closed behind you, it was like being tucked away in another world—as though nothing existed outside the walls around you. I love that feeling. It reminds me of when I write with a big cozy blanket draped over me.

When Mark first visited Hartford in 1868, it was the richest city in America. He labeled it "the best built and handsomest town I have ever seen."

My mom and I occasionally reminisce on how I almost refused to even visit the University of Hartford. I had heard one bad roommate story from a friend's sister and wanted no part of it ever since, but I agreed to check it out, and during that very first visit, I fell in love with the place. It was everything I dreamed a college campus could be and more. Interestingly, my first visit to U of H was a gorgeous day—sun shining in a blue sky. Every other day I visited a school, it was cloudy, rainy, or downright stormy.

I found some of the most meaningful friendships of my life in Hartford, Connecticut. The memories we made together there will be with me forever. My friends and I love to look back on our time there, but most of my buddies mock the city of Hartford, label it a slum, and swear there's no reason to go back for a reunion. I always laugh. It's true Hartford has changed tremendously from the rich town Mark Twain knew, and my crew definitely experienced the kind of events that give a city its notorious reputation. But despite Hartford's grit and grime, there is still wonder to discover there, and I'll always have a favorable bias toward the only other place I've ever lived.