A Love Letter to a House, a Place, a Time, and a Home
October — December 2021 | Denver, Colorado
When I turn the brass lock on the mansion’s side door to let myself in this time, I think about privilege.
The door clicks open. Out from the archway wafts out a warm light against the evening darkness. It is a sweet, sweet thing beckoning home and safety to me; warding off the biting cold. I’ll stamp my feet while I drag my groceries indoors by the thin plastic handles, about to break from the trek home. I did want to experience some cold before I put any roots down here, I’ll remind myself.
When you first enter that side door, you’ll notice soft honey-wood floors under an airy kitchen: almost four meters of height framed by aged windows stretching up from the countertop. From these windows, dried flowers left by some previous tenant, dangle unmoving, solid above us all. Across a small hallway, the white-grey marble staircase snakes upstairs in its grand, sanguine fashion. When I first moved in, I was warned to be careful with my luggage up those stairs — “make sure you don’t shatter them with a 50-lb suitcase, Athena.”
The house has four floors and a carriage house. Everything is wooden and ancient with the propensity to shatter like those marble stairs if given too much force. In my first bathroom’s closet, the doorknob had a habit of jumping off the handle if you closed the door, so my roommate Elaine and I just left the damn thing open most of the time. There’s a strange vintage shine to the house and its design, from a candlestick holder in the bathroom with the clawfoot tub to the dozens of giant radiators scattered around the house.
How warm it was, the entrance to my home here.
Built in 1900, the mansion is now owned by Dana Crawford, 91-year-old developer and savior of historic Denver. From the faraway distance of her downtown loft, she is an almost mythic figure in the history of Denver’s design. I only had the chance to meet her once, on my final day in the house. Despite her age, she had an always-full social calendar and constant mysterious board meetings, and she never really had the time to stop by. In her stead, the house is under the careful care of Katie, house manager; her son, Peter; and sometimes Bill, a long-time friend of hers. These three alternate roles between live-in masters of the house and the gentle camaraderie of housemates.
One of my favorite rooms in the mansion to show off (of the five sitting rooms) was a small room that went by many monikers:
- “The Red Room”—for its former deep-red wall paint the Crawford family painted in 1967,
- “The T.V. Room”—one of my housemates’ was the first to bring a T.V. into the house in decades,
- and “The Oval Room.”
That last one’s my name of choice because the room does evoke a very presidential feel to it, with a literal oval ceiling indentation featuring Corinthian-level moulding intricacy. A sweeping bay window sits behind an old cloth couch. There’s a bright light embedded in the ceiling indentation, perfect for late-night reading or studying. It’s very cozy!
By this time of year, my house manager Katie has stolen a tiny scraggly thing of a Christmas tree out of some Colorado mountain forest, and it’s surprising how ‘white American’ the whole scene is. There’s a timer set up for the lights to go on at night, and then you can see the whole cozy family scene from afar, imagining holiday delights only the wealthy can afford in a house such as this. There’s a bit of a The Little Matchgirl feel to it: an outsider story-book Christmas in the eyes of someone whose family hardly celebrates Christmas at all. Looking into the mansion from outside, you can barely start to hear the ethical straining of stolen land, generational wealth, the privilege of having a livable salary at all… but I digress.
The mansion is a beautiful thing. It, more than many things, helped make Denver my home. But the most loving part of my time in this city was the people.
And how do I describe them? How do I describe that river of souls I have watched flow past me with fascination? My therapist says I have “an addiction to interesting people.” I will admit—I have been on an uncountable amount of dates here, simply because I delight in human connection that much. Well, regardless of the people who pass me by and leave on their own journeys, let me introduce you to all my housemates, who I hope to keep a little longer.
There are seven of us in total. Raye and I are the youngest at 21, and Bill is the oldest at 71. Between that, there’s Katie (30's), Elaine (27), Jordan (28), and Peter (60's). When I tell my college-aged peers, they tell me we should’ve filmed a sitcom.
These people carry an undeniable light within them. There is a thread of uniquity and deep kindness that lives and grows within them, and I will never be more thankful that I found them when I dragged my suitcases in that day on October 2nd, heartbroken and lost and alone in a new city across the country.
The very first night I met Jordan, I wept to him. He simply took in my sadness in his gentle, affirming way: “Hey, it’s okay, I cry all the time too. It’s a good way to let things out.” And he held me, a young stranger with no note to her personality yet except pain.
The second night I met Elaine, we shared terrible memories across the kitchen table—things that one would typically speak about in a hushed manner and away from the ears of strangers. But she was so candid with me, and I in turn offered my bare truths as well. I think that honest candor and openness of boundaries is part of why we got along so well, so immediately that I could walk through her room to get to mine and feel that neither of us was uncomfortable with the lack of privacy.
It was a warm surprise to find people so willing not only to accept me for who I am but also to guide me in my moments of pain and confusion. I opened up to my housemates a little too early on in the friendships, and yet they accepted me so kindly and so lovingly. Some of the most lovely people in the world to me are on that high end of the empathy spectrum. In our house, we did joke once that we lived in a house full of empaths. But I am admittedly almost too open of a person. I am trusting. I am naïve. I love easily. I hurt easily and always express it truthfully.
It was strange to live in a new community where they were my closest physical support system, and harder for me to rely on them. We, of course, did start out as strangers to each other, who grew to be a community.
A morning in the house would go like this:
I dance my way down the marble staircase in some unknown delight that day. The kitchen is a little colder than it is upstairs, but Elaine’s already downstairs making the whole place smell like heavenly coffee. She never fails to greet you as soon as you’re in her presence. Her smile is like an exclamation of acknowledgment.
Raye or Jordan will wander downstairs, hurried in their own morning routines. If it’s Raye, they’re usually already fully geared up for the day ahead with backpack, shoes, keys, everything, only stopping in the kitchen to grab their meal-prepped lunch before swinging out the door. If it’s Jordan, he’s a little less hurried thanks to his full-time remote work and will stop to indulge in coffee and a gentle conversation. I’m always the one slowing either of them down, eager to talk as always.
Peter sometimes makes an appearance from downstairs, and we’ll chat briefly while he makes his morning tea, before he wanders off to some unknown task-to-be-done. Katie and Bill aren’t often seen, both having their own kitchens and living spaces (and escape from my incessant need to chat).
The kitchen, I found, was like a curved tide pool of conversation, easily catching incoming and outgoing people to note the highlights and lowlights of their days. Maybe it was my constant presence at the table, eating breakfast and working from home and reading in the evening, that caught people in those conversations. But I am a true extrovert, and the kitchen sustained my appetite for insight into others’ lives very well. For a few weeks, every time Peter and I ended up in the same room, we’d talk late into the night for up to four hours, and Katie had to send an email gently reminding us all that the kitchen is a place to silently complete life tasks, too.
But aside from my evident extrovertedness, I like to think I’m a respectful roommate. I love to clean. I love to organize and take care of things, the way I’d tidy up the countertops and buy a lampshade for the lamp I moved into the office. I had a deep love for the house (can’t you tell?) and wanted to love it as much as it was loving me. It was a sweet thing, to be able to fly in from a Thanksgiving family visit in North Carolina and come home to the welcoming wood paneling of the house.
It was just as beautiful outside the mansion as it was inside. Capitol Hill, where the mansion resides, gave me the gift of a city that knows how to retain its greenery. Grand old oak and pine trees lined streets of mansions, branches spread to create an archway over the roads. In early November, the trees were drenched in vibrant yellows and oranges so bright it looked like fire. Someone who’d lived here for 30 years told me it was the most brilliant and persisting autumn Denver had seen in years.
Every little walk in this neighborhood was a relentless joy. Every breath of fresh air and wayward trounce to the nearby Cheesman Park brought me a deep love of nature and the world. There was always a taste of delightful life to be found at Cheesman: live music, from a full symphony practicing in the raised pavilion; teenagers working on a choreographed dance in the common area; laughter and conversations and so many dogs; and of course, the sweet damp grass to lay on and marvel at the ever-clear blue skies of Colorado.
To live in a city where its outdoors welcome you to revel in them is a beautiful gift, and one I did not expect Denver to give me. Working from home kept me in the house for long hours, but the commercial proximity a city gives you allowed me to sneak out to make grocery runs under those golden archways of trees, or make a quick coffee run two minutes down the street. Beauty was always near me, in Denver.
Living each day among my six housemates, I realized I grew up living like I was poor with the means to not be. Let me explain: I’m frugal, in the way you count cents per ounce in the grocery store. I’m not afraid of dirt or detritus or pain or suffering.
In my childhood, I remember dark, hushed mornings opened up into familial noise as all four of us crowded around a single low sink to brush our teeth. The toilet is porcelain. It glows against the morning light. My house had four bathrooms. Why then, did my parents huddle us all together to brush our teeth while the sun awoke?
Must’ve been the old immigrant memories. Decades-old memories, the way I would bathe myself with a bucket and rag above a dirty-tiled drain in Guangzhou; the way I’d watch my grandmother kill a chicken with her bare hands and cook it that same evening.
And yet I often feel I grew up extremely sheltered. Sometimes I resent that degree of sheltering, the mild Asian helicopter-parenting I grew up with. There was a sameness to my home suburb, shaving down the delights of life to focus just on schoolwork. Sometimes, when I would talk to people while I was in Denver, I couldn’t even begin to explain the worlds of differences my childhood was, from the academic rigor (SAT classes in 6th grade—why?) to the constant pressure of watching others succeed in a specific way (“so-and-so got into Stanford/Yale/Harvard!” followed by the expectant look your way).
I think that’s what this period of life has taught me the most: to truly live in the delights of life. Being a working adult gave me the flexibility and monetary gift of being free enough to indulge in things I liked doing. What a concept! For me, a favorite indulgement of mine was, well, connecting with humans.
Living in a large city like Denver is a very good way to do that.
In the three months I’ve been here, I’ve considered myself a proper resident among the three million transplants in the city. I’ve got a Colorado ID and everything, from getting voter registration (don’t worry, I won’t actually be able to vote once I leave), to an RTD (rail/bus system) card, and all the local grocery store chain memberships.
I truly stepped into Denver as my new home with delightful ease. I have favorite coffee shops, favorite bars, favorite restaurants and clubs and live music venues and art groups and as much of life as I could squeeze into my 60-hour work-and-college weeks. I have thrived here, I think, with my weekend escapades to the mountains and beautiful people to meet.
And therein lies the aching privilege that I can do any of that at all. I think this dormant reminder in my mind is a result of my empathetic nature, the way I really feel the people who I talk to, who are so worn down by the economic and capitalist nature of our world that they can barely afford to live. I always remember them. For that moment that we talk, sometimes I feel like they are a part of me. And maybe they still are.
I knew a girl, barely older than me, who worked three cleaning jobs and drove six hours roundtrip to come into the city some weekends because it was simply the best way to make money. I only met her for a night. And yet that little moment was all it took for me to feel the deep claw of sleep deprivation clutched around her heart, the cutting terror of not having enough money to keep yourself alive.
What a contrast, then, to the others I knew in Denver, so steeped in their privilege that the concept of ‘affording to live’ didn’t need to exist for them. I’ve met the richest of people you could imagine in this city and staggered at the magnitude of wealth they carry; seen the casual air of facing death without fear because you know you are cradled by your wealth. Because the true downtown of Denver is a city of the rich. Who else could afford the steepened housing and food prices here? Only wealthy out-of-staters with cushy corporate jobs, moving in to indulge in the culture and beauty of the state. (That’s me, too.)
One of my most acutely painful, yet memorable moments in Denver was meeting a man named Scotty. He didn’t wear shoes in the then-40-degree weather. He’d only been on the streets for a little over a month and yet his clothes were already worn down into a muted grey/brown, ragged tears at little corners.
“Hey,” he murmured, peering in close to me as I waited on a friend who wanted to stop by a dispensary.
“I just need some food. Can you help me out?”
Food is easy, I thought, as someone who doesn’t carry cash. Luckily, we happened to be right in front of a hot dog shop. I slipped inside and paid for one.
As he ate, he offered me a glimpse of his life: he was homeless because he came into town to live with his best friend, who killed himself a month ago. He had been in a deep state of agony and depression since his wife killed herself in January.
That last one shook me to my core—because I tried to kill myself in January, and I confessed to him so.
Like so many good people I have encountered here, he did not gasp in horror or recoil in disgust. Because he had lived through it, of course. We waded through gentle understandings of each other. He held me by my shoulders and said, emphatically: “Don’t you ever kill yourself! You’re too good of a person.”
And then he left, as I was pulled under a tide of swirling emotions, alone in front of the hot dog shop.
I felt my hands shaking, my heart shaking, my soul, poor thing, about to hop out from my mouth and abandon me. I sank into myself and screamed and screamed and screamed. Because here, now, I had finally witnessed the grief that killing yourself leaves behind. Here, now, I finally felt what I had inflicted on others this year.
Just one man in just one moment and it felt like something altogether new had been torn into me.
It’s moments like meeting Scotty, the shock of experiencing others’ lives, the gentle community of the house, the freshness of wandering in a city you’re just getting to know, and of course the people, the beautiful people, that make me love Denver so.
I am eternally grateful I got to experience these three months here, meet these lovely people, and get to continue knowing them. I feel as though I grew anew: in work, in life experience, in empathy, in joy. I learned to let go of so many things and simply live. Denver offered me a gentle home of transformation while I processed my changes: I lost a great love of mine. I let go of the deep pressure of forcing myself into the corporate world. I refused to kill myself for college. I, instead, took the reins of my life and said: Let’s go somewhere else.
And I will. I think I will. I think I’ll travel and work on a farm or fall into the desert and free myself of the guilts and frustrations that surround me. I’ll make use of the money I’ve made and the privilege my family affords me so I can learn from others.
Life is about empathy, I think. Life is about learning and knowing others while also letting them know you.
If you are a friend of mine, you have seen the house. If you have not seen the house yet, well, come on in! I want to show you.
I had the explicit permission of Katie, Peter, Bill, Raye, Jordan, and Elaine to use their names. Other names were altered.
Photos of the house were taken by me, on a Canon 6D Mark I with a 16 mm wide-angle lens.
