I still remember moving to the United States three years ago. I relished my new found freedom. I loved the smell of the metropolis: the overabundant fast foods, the skyscrapers, the fancy attire, the rush, and the best of them all: the independence that I had always wanted. I had said goodbye to almost everyone I have ever known, but the "hellos" with random strangers were surprisingly comforting. I was "free" here. I did not have to worry about getting million calls if I was not home by 7. I loved the idea of being on my own and making my own choices. I was not allowed to have coffee back home, so the first thing I did when I landed at LAX was treat myself to a big cup of Starbucks's Iced Coffee that tasted of sweet, heavenly, thirst-quenching freedom. Oh, I was so ready to make U.S my new home. Become an American.

It took me four years to realize that I will always be too foreign for here. In fact, I will end up being too foreign for home as well.

I am too Nepali for America even after four years of living here. I can never find waking up to a cup of tasteless, dark roasted coffee in a concrete jungle as satisfying as getting up to the smell of freshly brewed Chia(Milk Tea with ginger and other spices) and the view of snow-carpeted mountains. How did I take that view for granted? Every time I sit in my small room and listen to Bipul Chhetri's Asaar, I have flashbacks of the amazing monsoon in Kathmandu, and how awesome it felt to read a good book or sleep in the attic as flurry raindrops pattered against the tin roof. I have substituted that with a fake rainy mood app to help me sleep here, but that does not make me feel home. Nothing does. Even though I have acculturated myself to the American culture(to a certain degree), I can never truly be an American. I can never call biscuit, a cookie or chai, chai tea. I proudly dip my biscuits in my Chia( the only way to truly enjoy Chia-Biscuit) and I put salt and pepper in carbonated water and call it Soda. I don't like Pizza at all and I hate McDonald's. I have to add home-spices to every food here to make it edible enough for me and I cannot survive a whole week without rice. My priorities will always be different and I can never make my personal profit a priority over people no matter how long I live here. And this is certainly not a critique of American lifestyle. But a study of my own struggles of finding a space for myself between two different cultures.

I thought making food from back home will help me feel at home here. I even bought authentic spices from back home, but my food never tastes Nepali enough. No matter how much I try, it does not taste like home. There is always something missing and I can't figure out what. It is funny because my food feels Americanized. But I do not.

I thought after a year of living here, I'd totally be an American. I will be able to get as excited about Christmas, Thanksgiving and Halloween as people here. But even after all these years, I haven't. I love them, but I can never get as excited about them as I get excited about my own festivals. I miss home and I miss my festivals.

It is really hard being away from home especially during the time of festivals. I have not been home to celebrate my favorite festivals for four years now and that void is hard to fill. Last week marked the beginning of one of our major festivals, Dashain, and the only thing I could do was play festival music in my room and imagine that I am back home. It really sucks not feeling the festival in the air-- bright lights everywhere, all the doors and windows adorned with marigold garlands, the kites, the delicious castrated goat meat, and your whole family and distant relatives coming together TO GIFT YOU MONEY and blessings!

When I went back home last winter after nearly 3 years, I was really excited. I thought at least I had the Nepali side of my identity that I will always be able to identify with completely. But even that facet of my identity had altered. And I realized how foreign I had become for my own home as well. I used to be proud of the amount of spice I could handle, but I couldn't even handle half this time. I couldn't even eat Achaar. What a shame! I had gotten so used to the privilege here, I had a hard time not complaining about the room being too cold and public transport being too inconvenient constantly. I might have been used to subtle sexist, racist and homophobic jokes to not notice it before but I felt really uncomfortable and had to leave the conversation many times. Power cuts and slow internet, the two things I was used to the most bothered me a lot. I had a hard time adjusting to being-told what to do by my parents.(What a sacrilege! Nepalis stay with their parents all their life) And seriously, I couldn't digest the street foods. THE STREET FOODS THAT WERE MY LIFE. I kind of missed some aspects of my life here and I actually feel really guilty admitting that.

So, Where is home? Where do I belong? I belong in the middle space between two cultures like every other immigrant, refugee, and sojourner. I am now "too foreign for home, too foreign for here, but never enough for both"(Diaspora Blues, Ijeoma Umebinyuo) I will always be too be American for Nepal and too Nepali for America. The In-between space is now also my new identity and my new safe-space/home. I can switch for speaking English and sounding soft spoken to speaking in Nepali and sounding aggressive in a matter of seconds. And When I change my language, I change my thought process as well as part of identity.

My food is Americanized Nepali. And So am I. Not very American and Not completely Nepali.