蝸居：有愛即是家

Recently it came to my attention that I had gotten into a bad habit. Whenever anyone visited our one-bedroom apartment， home to two adults and two children， I made sure to declare within the first five minutes， “Of course we’ll be moving soon.”

This is， in fact， a lie. These days， apartments in our suddenly high-rent Brooklyn neighborhood regularly sell for $50，000 above the asking price1）， and I’ve heard of buyers swooping2） in to pay nearly a million dollars cash within 24 hours of a small fixer-upper3） house being listed. My husband is an artist and I am a writer; we both teach for CUNY. Even though we own our place （got a good deal for it in 2009， post-downturn）， we are still out of our league4） in terms of trading up5）.

For a long time I chafed6） against this fact， disbelieved it and denied it and spent my Sundays dutifully trudging from one pie-in-the-sky open house7） to another. I nodded along with the murmurs of sympathy I received whenever I described our living situation. I felt ashamed that our daughter’s bedroom is a small space carved out of our former bedroom.

But here’s the thing： I could count on my fingers the number of times I’ve experienced a true moment of claustrophobia8） in our home.

So this is my real-estate epiphany9）—the problem is not living in a small space as a family of four. The problem is the acquaintance who， upon hearing about our setup， flings hand to breast and insists， “Well， you can’t raise your child in a broom closet！”

The amount of living space per person in an average new American home is 1，054.7 square feet. In our 650-square-foot home， that number is 162.5 square feet. By New York standards， and certainly by world standards， this is not so shabby. But it’s shabby enough to have earned comments like， “You had to move the bed to the living room？ That’s such a bummer10）！”

Not long ago， when I was pregnant with our second child and frenetically working to finish revisions on my novel （in which， it just so happens， a series of small and peculiar apartments serves to illuminate the characters’ inner lives）， I felt acutely， tearfully， that self-consciousness of not being able to adequately provide. One night， my husband and I stayed up late binge11）-watching video tours of small homes， my favorite of which features Oprah visiting an impeccably tasteful apartment in Copenhagen. The elegant Danish hostess shows Oprah the miniature fridge and the elevated alcove where her children sleep. “That’s your whole refrigerator？” Oprah says. “This is their whole bedroom？” Oprah is astounded， but she’s also impressed.

I finally swore off looking at real-estate listings the day I encountered a feature in Dwell12） about a Brooklyn couple who moved upstate in order to raise their family with more space， only to find that they were discontent with their isolation; they promptly moved back to Brooklyn， bought a small Windsor Terrace apartment， and transformed it into such an oasis that I wanted to crawl right through the pages and make coffee in their bright， uncluttered13） kitchen with its clean white lines and open shelving.

Pair that with coming upon the model apartment in Ikea for a family of four in less than 600 square feet—I lingered there， contemplated cunning14） storage systems， reassured myself that we’re not crazy， that I’m not a failure for offering my children less square footage than I had as a kid.

The idea that you can’t have it all， that you must give up some things in order to have others—it’s not just something people say. We children of the buoyant15） ’80s and ’90s are sometimes reticent16） to believe that we do often have to choose between financially rewarding careers and emotionally rewarding careers， between a partner who brings home the bacon and a partner who’s home for bedtime， between a large home and a small home. We’re always going to be making trade-offs. Though my husband and I never made the explicit choice to live in a one-bedroom with two kids， there have been so many choices along the way， a wealth of choices： the choice to live in this city， the choice to be artists， the choice to be teachers， the choice to have two children. This whole one-bedroom thing starts to look like a pretty high-class problem when one considers the privilege that lies behind each of those choices.

The sculptor and installation artist Andrea Zittel created a piece called the A-Z Body Processing Unit， which consists of a bucket toilet placed directly in front of a surface for preparing and eating food， the smallest possible space in which one can perform the purest acts of survival： input， output. There’s a severity to this， a starkness17） and a question about the point of existence—but what strikes me more is the graceful efficiency， the humorous extremity， and， ultimately， the serenity18）. Succeeding at small-space living has more to do with your state of mind than with how you manage your square feet. It requires acknowledging that a greater amount of physical space doesn’t necessarily correlate with a greater amount of mental space.

A few weeks ago， my 2-year-old—who has already overheard me talking real estate ad nauseam19）—said out of the blue20）， “Mommy， I never want to leave this home. We’re cozy here.”

Her tiny little room is her pride and joy， and in our household （or， I guess， apartmenthold）， we refer to it as “the coziest room in Brooklyn.” When a little boy recently stepped into her bedroom and said， “Why is this room so small？” I felt a flash of neck-wringing rage. But it swiftly passed. For one thing， my daughter didn’t seem to register21） his comment. And by the time she is old enough to feel self-conscious about the size of her room， here’s hoping she’ll be able to understand that rather than giving her a big room in a big house with a big yard， we’ve chosen to spend tons of time with her and her brother， and to pursue our passions.

I often think about something a friend once was told by his beloved rabbi： “Your values are how you spend your money and your time.” Never mind what values you proclaim—the proof is in the pudding22）.

In the evening， I shower by night-light so the bathroom light won’t wake the kids. I put on a bathrobe （there’s one tip—own a thick enough bathrobe and you can trick yourself into feeling like your home is a palace）. I step past the two nooks23） where my children sleep deeply， enter the other room in its hushed post-bedtime cleanliness， my husband drawing at his desk， and joy fizzes up inside me. My entire expanding life contained within this beautiful white rectangle of a home.

So here’s my promise： The next time someone comes over， I’m going to fling open the door to reveal our kitchen/bedroom/dining room/living room/playroom/my office/his office/exercise room/library/family room. I’ll say， “Come on in， make yourself at home.”

最近我注意到，我養成了一個壞習慣。每逢有人來到我們這個住著兩個大人和兩個孩子的一居室公寓，我都一定會在客人到來的頭五分鐘內聲明：“當然，我們很快就會搬家。”

其實這是在說謊。如今，我家所在的這個布魯克林的地段突然變成了高租金地段，公寓常常以高于要價五萬美元的價格成交。我也聽說，某棟破舊待修的小房子掛牌出售還不到24小時，就有買家迅速出動，支付近一百萬美元的現金購房。我丈夫是藝術家，我是個作家，我們倆都在紐約市立大學教書。雖然我們擁有自己的住房（在經濟衰退后的2009年以很劃算的價錢買入），但是要想換購更大的房子，我們還是力不能及。

長久以來，我都對這個事實感到惱火，不相信也拒絕承認，周日都是在兢兢業業地四處跑著看開放參觀的房子—那些我可望而不可即的房子。每當我講起自家的居住條件，都會聽到人們輕聲表達的同情之語，此時我會跟著一起點頭。我女兒的臥室是從我們原來的臥室隔出的一小塊地方，我為此感到慚愧。

但事實上，我真正感到家里狹小得憋促的時候卻屈指可數。

這就是我關于房子的頓悟—問題不在于一家四口住在一個很小的空間里。問題在于那些熟人一聽說我們家的格局，就會用手撫胸，堅持說：“哎呀，你可不能在雜物間里把孩子養大！”

美國普通新建住宅的人均居住面積為1054.7平方英尺（編注：1平方英尺約為0.09平方米）。我家的面積是650平方英尺，人均面積為162.5平方英尺。按照紐約的標準來看這不算很寒酸，以國際標準來看無疑也是如此。但是，這已經寒酸得足以收到如下這樣的評論了：“你得把床挪到客廳里？那可真糟糕！”

不久前，當我懷著老二，發狂般地工作以完成我的小說的修改工作時（巧合的是，在小說中，我用一系列獨特的小公寓來闡釋人物的內心世界），我深切體會到了一種羞愧感，傷心不已，因為我不能給家人提供足夠好的生活條件。一天晚上，我和丈夫熬夜狂看參觀小型家居的視頻節目。我最喜歡的一集是奧普拉造訪哥本哈根的一間品味無可挑剔的公寓。優雅的丹麥女主人向奧普拉展示了微型冰箱和供孩子們睡覺的抬高的凹室。“那就是你們的整個冰箱？”奧普拉問，“這就是他們的整個臥室？”奧普拉很吃驚，但同時也欽佩不已。

一天，我在Dwell雜志上讀到了一篇專題文章，那天我終于發誓再也不看房產目錄了。文章寫的是一對布魯克林夫婦為了有更大的空間撫養孩子而搬到州北部，結果卻發現他們不喜歡那種與世隔絕的狀態。他們很快又搬回了布魯克林，在溫莎露臺地區買下一套小公寓，把它改造得像綠洲一樣宜人，看得我直想爬進雜志里，在他們那有著潔白線條和開放式儲物架的明亮整潔的廚房里沖杯咖啡喝。

除此之外，我還偶然在宜家看到了為居住面積不足600平方英尺的四口之家設計的樣板間。我在那里駐足良久，仔細打量它巧妙的儲物收納系統，安慰自己說我們并沒有發瘋，雖然我為孩子們提供的居住面積比我小時候擁有的要小，但并不能因此說我失職。

你無法樣樣兼得，必須有舍才有得—這個道理并不只是人們隨便說說而已。我們這些在經濟繁榮的20世紀八九十年代長大的孩子有時不愿意相信以下事實：我們確實常常不得不在報酬高的職業和能夠帶來精神滿足的職業之間做出選擇，在能賺錢養家的伴侶和能按時回家睡覺的伴侶之間做出選擇，在大房子和小房子之間做出選擇。我們總是要權衡、妥協。雖然我和丈夫從來沒有明確地選擇要帶著兩個孩子住在一居室的房子里，但是一路走來我們已經做出了很多選擇，非常多的選擇：選擇在這個城市生活，選擇以藝術為業，選擇當老師，選擇生兩個孩子。當你考慮到這些選擇中的每次選擇所帶來的好處時，這個一居室的問題就開始顯得不那么簡單了。

雕塑家兼裝置藝術家安德烈亞·齊特爾創作過一件名為“身體全面處理單元”的作品。作品由兩部分構成，一個是用桶做成的馬桶，一個是做飯和用餐的平臺，馬桶直接放在平臺的前面，這是一個人實現純粹生存而進行的活動—吃喝拉撒—所需的最小空間。這件作品有一種嚴肅性，樸實無華，而且提出了有關生存意義的問題—但更打動我的是其中的效率之美、極致的幽默感以及最重要的一點，寧靜。在狹小的空間里要想生活得好，更多的是在于你的心態，而不是如何利用空間。你需要承認，更大的物理空間未必與更大的精神空間相關聯。

幾周前，兩歲大的女兒—她聽我談房子的事已經聽煩了—突然對我說：“媽媽，我永遠都不想離開這個家。咱們在這兒很舒服。”

她那小小的房間是她的驕傲和樂土，在我們家（或者，我想應該說小家），我們稱她的房間為“布魯克林最舒適的房間”。最近，一個小男孩走進她的臥室，說：“這個房間怎么這么小啊？”這話讓我怒火上沖，簡直想擰斷他的脖子。不過，這股火很快就消下去了。原因之一是我的女兒似乎并沒有在意他的話。等到她年齡再大些，知道為自己的房間太小而感到難為情時，希望她能理解，我們沒有給她一個帶大庭院的大房子中的一個大房間，而是選擇了花大量時間陪伴她和弟弟，并且從事我們熱愛的事業。

我常常想起朋友敬重的一位拉比（編注：猶太教宗教領袖）曾對他說過的話：“你的價值觀體現在你如何支配自己的金錢和時間。”別管你嘴上說自己的價值觀是什么—行動上見真章。

晚上，我借著夜燈洗澡，這樣浴室的燈光就不會把孩子們弄醒。我穿上浴袍（有個小竅門—擁有一件足夠厚實的浴袍會讓你產生自己的家是座宮殿的錯覺）。我走過孩子們沉睡其間的兩個角落，在入睡時間過后的整潔和寂靜中走進另一個房間，我的丈夫正在書桌邊畫畫，快樂在我的心中升騰。這個美麗的、白色的、四方形的家就承載著我整個不斷拓展的人生。

我保證，下次有人來我家時，我會一把拉開房門，向客人展示我們的廚房/臥室/餐廳/客廳/游戲室/我的辦公室/丈夫的辦公室/健身房/圖書室/家庭活動室。我會說：“快進來，別拘束。”