When you don't live in your country of origin, life can feel confusing, isolating even. Different languages, cultures, and discrimination usually come attached in the fine print of immigrating. Nonetheless, for those who have made the journey, or those who are the first born in a new country, there's comfort in our shared identity, no matter the homeland.

My father and mother always taught me

That knowledge is power,

So if I did not know the meaning of a word,

I should look it up.

One day, I came across a word that made my eyebrows furrow together.

I reached for our crimson Merriam-Webster

And skimmed the a's, b's, c's, and hit the D's.

D-and-i, d-and-i.

"Diaspora."

What I learned then was not the definition of the word,

But the definition of my identity.

I belonged to a pocket of people

Who have an emotional and cultural connection

To a homeland from which they have strayed,

Be it a consequence of weather, war, or witch-hunting.

We will carry that burden of attachment to this definition

Yet feel detached in our sense of homelessness.

But a homeland is not a place,

It is an identity.

As dandelions spread their seed,

The wind currents carrying

And tearing one from another,

They will always be from that same dandelion.

Everyone will always recognize them as the spawn of a dandelion.

And although it may never be able to find the comfort

In the soft bud of its birth flower,

It sprouts far away,

Growing a stem, petals, and even seeds of its own

To create a new homeland.

And when there are two dandelions beside one another,

Chances are that they aren't from the same flower,

But they can bond and build a garden

Of their shared pioneer identity.