Carlos Ezquerro | Home is Other People

NOVEMBER 24, 2019

I don’t remember exactly how Carlos and I became friends—only that a lively and perhaps intoxicated conversation one night evolved into more frequent encounters, filled with laughter and strange humor; soon it became rowdy meals off campus, various attempts to set him up with girls I knew, and, eventually, living together this past summer with our friend Randy in a bizarre and entirely chaotic existence that I never want to forget.

Even before we formally met, though, I always knew of Carlos as loud. The energy of a room gravitates around him, his voice rising above the rest—he is never hard to find. What I didn’t know, and what I have been lucky to learn, is that his boundless energy and noise are matched only by the care and enthusiasm he carries for the people in his life; and I am fortunate enough to be one of those who has benefited from this love. This summer, on the rare nights he got off work early, he would return home to find me reading or watching television in my bed, and like a needy cat he would climb in beside me, stretching to fill my range of view: Veronica, pay attention to me. The conversations that followed, whether a minute or half an hour, comprise some of my fondest memories.

Despite his openness now, however, Carlos has not always been the vulnerable type. Growing up with just his mom and sister, he tells me that by the time he hit his early teenage years, he understood the responsibility that came from being the only male in a family without a father figure. Not even in a gendered way. I’ve always been the most level-headed in my family, the most reasonable, so in many ways my mom and I were partners growing up. I sort of just helped try and figure everything out.

His family moved around a lot—I’ve lived, at this point, in at least 19 different homes—so for him, the notion of home is tied to people, not place. It’s always been emotional. Carlos is quick to point out the role that his friends have played in his life. In high school, he tells me, he began to open up, and this process of personal growth helped him understand the value of emotional vulnerability within his friendships. He was lucky enough, too, to find people who were both supportive, caring, loving—and a lot of fun. I think my friends function as people I can have a great time with, but are also very grounding people in a lot of ways. And this is true even of his family: My mom and my sister are two of my best friends.

Carlos is one of those people who makes me feel completely at peace. Maybe it’s because ten weeks of cohabitation have taught me the ins and outs of his living style more thoroughly than I ever wanted to know; maybe it’s because we can be on a table together, yelling the words of Despacito across a crowded room, and it feels the same as lying in the dark in silence, watching Pulp Fiction at one in the morning; or maybe it’s simply because he grounds me as much as his friends ground him. He says, I have a lot of people who really care about me and are willing to both support me, but also challenge me, through whatever is going on. Yet he never fails to give more than he gets; whether through heartbreak, confusion, sadness, or frustration, Carlos has been by my side, pushing me into the unknown, encouraging me to own my decisions, and always believing. Honest, hilarious, and loving, he is the kind of friend I am lucky to have. 

And, although those who know him will likely classify him as corporate, Carlos wants more than anything to be a father. I truly do look forward to being a good dad. In the same way that I love devoting myself to my friends and their happiness, I think I would find a lot of pleasure in raising kids who also found some level of deep satisfaction in their life.

That, I think, is what differentiates him from most anyone else I know. Despite a childhood that could easily have left him jaded, Carlos radiates positivity. He brings happiness into every room.

I get a lot of joy out of other people’s joy, he tells me. I ask him where else he finds that happiness. In great meals with big groups. I think when I can go out and be with four or five of my closest friends or my family and just be laughing and bonding over that little shared experience—that to me is my happy place. The meals do not have to be delicious; they just have to be memorable. He recounts an entirely-too-expensive meal in Tokyo to me, laughing throughout—the food was terrible, he says, but the experience? I would be shocked if I ever forgot it.

In the end, though, it is family that motivates him. It is the sacrifices that his mom has made for him, and it is the future that he one day aspires to have: I want to make sure that my kids and my spouse feel like they’re able to achieve meaningful outcomes. I want to ensure that everyone in my life, myself included, has a sense of security upon which they can build a more deeply satisfying life. Carlos has always shared everything with me—I’d even go so far as to say that I probably know too much about his life. But with everything I know, I am most thankful to have experienced his wealth of selflessness, a debt I can only hope to repay.

Next year, Carlos and Randy and I will be moving in together, turning our temporary summer roommateship into a permanent, foreseeable future. I cannot spell out in these words how excited I am—for the energy, life, and noise that will undoubtedly permeate our apartment, but also for the memories we have yet to make. As someone who is uprooting herself from fifteen—almost sixteen—years of childhood in the same house, I cannot yet confront the idea of moving. But I have no doubt that it will be all right, if only because of the happiness that I have found in Carlos’ friendship. His ability to reach out and give. His capacity to care so, so deeply about those he loves. This warmth, this kindness—I know that he will turn that house, as he does with every space, into a home.

Photo courtesy of Carlos Ezquerro