In foreign language class, one of the first questions they teach you to answer after your name is “where are you from/where is your home?” When you’re a young child, this is easy. Home is where your parents live, your bedroom across from acres of farmland near the big city that’s actually pretty small or the apartment downtown across from the bakery. You answer without thinking twice, lost in sugar-coated memories of happy times and beloved places. Home is something definite and easy, something you take for granted. You cherish and cling to its certainty, failing to realize that in an instant that could all disappear.
If you Google “home” the first result is for Home Depot. The Dictionary.com definition is scarcely more helpful. “Home: The place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.” This is a minimalist definition in every respect. Nowhere in that is there a reflection of how much home can mean to someone. Home is so much more than just a house. If you’re fortunate, it’s a place of love, happiness, acceptance, memories, and familiarity. It’s a place you have roots to and a sense of belonging in. Home is somewhere you can always turn to, somewhere you can count on to be there for you no matter what the outside world tries to throw at you. For many people, home is unchanging. It’s the same physical location for all the years of childhood. Even if you move houses, it’s often just to somewhere a few blocks away, never anything too far. You still have a sense of familiarity with the area and community.
What happens when those roots are suddenly ripped out from under you? In my junior year of high school, I received thrilling news. “Your dad has a new job!” I knew he’d been looking for a long time, so I was happy for him. My excitement was short-lived, however, when the caveat followed. “The new job is in another state.” Barely four years later, the same news came a second time via text while I was 3,000 miles away at college. Just when I thought I’d finally settled into Washington, all that familiarity vanished a second time. As I thought about why the loss hurt so much, I realized that it wasn’t just the home I was losing. With Washington, I never had a chance to say goodbye. By the time I have another school break, my parents will be on to the next place. “Home” has turned from somewhere with tire swings and wild animal shelters to a foreign desert of cacti and dust that I’ve never even seen. In time, I will adapt. In time I’ll learn the new maze of streets, the new restaurants and buildings and people my parents will undoubtedly grow to love. Now that I’m in college, however, the new house will never really be home. “Home” is more my dorm room than a new house belonging to my parents ever will be.
