I often write about my experiences as an immigrant; a series of moments of flux and transition, amusement and discord, complete openness and heavy walls. There is very little that is fixed.
As I grow older though, the notion of "home" becomes stronger and stronger, increasingly fixed and solid in some ways but geographically unstable and dispersed.
As I grow older and older my pangs of homesickness are sharper-every once in a while I sit and can't stop myself from yearning for people and places that have nothing to do with each other. I now understand that stare my mom has when she is enjoying a very fresh and ripe fruit-she is here eating the fruit, but she is also "there" enjoying it. When I was young it would get on my nerves to see her disappear, but now, I respect her brief moment of meditation on time, place and belonging.
So when I say I am homesick-its not in quite the same way people who are born and raised in the same place speak of homesickness or think of home. Home is an emotional place, a place where you belong, a moment of unconditional love, an experience of connection. So when I say I am missing home it could mean any one of these things or all at the same time:
The smell of grape freshly picked in Eastern Washington or the smell of grape soda for a birthday party in Ciudad Guayana (yes, they smell the same)
Sitting on a rock on the farm, hiding from the heat AND my annoying brothers
Showering in the rain
Cleaning up horse manure before riding your horse
The smell of lemongrass
Staring at the night sky in the Palouse
Learning to bake apple pie because your client decided to pay you in what might as well be a bushel of apples
Sharing stories and laughing even though you don't speak the same language
Knowing that when someone calls me a turtle its not an insult-whether they do so in Venezuela or San Antonio
Knowing when there are or aren't crocodiles in the water
A cry-I can't explain it-Americans don't do this-but spend time in Latin America, the Middle East and you'll hear someone scream, usually a man, like he is releasing all the weight he is carrying into the universe, sometimes its all the joy
My dad picking me up from school and asking me what I learned-knowing the answer will always be "nothing"
Being offered the little someone has: the farmworker's last hot dog, the Appalachian's only chair to sit on, the Thai fisherman's only fish
Spending ours entertained because one of your cousins left a door open and between the collective imaginations of several young kids, the mistake became a Criminal Minds plot which ended with your uncle closing the door sending you to sleep
Creating ghosts out of bedsheets when the power goes out and there is a thunder storm at night
Burning your hands by touching your hair
...and even knowing you'll be pulled over the moment you cross into Hamilton or Lebanon Counties
The list is not exhaustive-but the pull is strong and it gets stronger the older I get. I miss home a lot these days, but I am not sure I know where that is.
As I grow older though, the notion of "home" becomes stronger and stronger, increasingly fixed and solid in some ways but geographically unstable and dispersed.
As I grow older and older my pangs of homesickness are sharper-every once in a while I sit and can't stop myself from yearning for people and places that have nothing to do with each other. I now understand that stare my mom has when she is enjoying a very fresh and ripe fruit-she is here eating the fruit, but she is also "there" enjoying it. When I was young it would get on my nerves to see her disappear, but now, I respect her brief moment of meditation on time, place and belonging.
So when I say I am homesick-its not in quite the same way people who are born and raised in the same place speak of homesickness or think of home. Home is an emotional place, a place where you belong, a moment of unconditional love, an experience of connection. So when I say I am missing home it could mean any one of these things or all at the same time:
The smell of grape freshly picked in Eastern Washington or the smell of grape soda for a birthday party in Ciudad Guayana (yes, they smell the same)
Sitting on a rock on the farm, hiding from the heat AND my annoying brothers
Showering in the rain
Cleaning up horse manure before riding your horse
The smell of lemongrass
Staring at the night sky in the Palouse
Learning to bake apple pie because your client decided to pay you in what might as well be a bushel of apples
Sharing stories and laughing even though you don't speak the same language
Knowing that when someone calls me a turtle its not an insult-whether they do so in Venezuela or San Antonio
Knowing when there are or aren't crocodiles in the water
A cry-I can't explain it-Americans don't do this-but spend time in Latin America, the Middle East and you'll hear someone scream, usually a man, like he is releasing all the weight he is carrying into the universe, sometimes its all the joy
My dad picking me up from school and asking me what I learned-knowing the answer will always be "nothing"
Being offered the little someone has: the farmworker's last hot dog, the Appalachian's only chair to sit on, the Thai fisherman's only fish
Spending ours entertained because one of your cousins left a door open and between the collective imaginations of several young kids, the mistake became a Criminal Minds plot which ended with your uncle closing the door sending you to sleep
Creating ghosts out of bedsheets when the power goes out and there is a thunder storm at night
Burning your hands by touching your hair
...and even knowing you'll be pulled over the moment you cross into Hamilton or Lebanon Counties
The list is not exhaustive-but the pull is strong and it gets stronger the older I get. I miss home a lot these days, but I am not sure I know where that is.
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