Home

Home used to be so simple. It was where I lived, where my mom, dad, and sister slept at night, and where I grew up. It was a blue house in the suburbs of central Massachusetts, surrounded by trees and built next to swamp land. Take a right off of the main highway and then another right and another right.

When I left Massachusetts to go to school in Washington, DC, nothing changed. DC was where I was getting my education, but that little blue house was still my home, and I visited it during school vacations. I was from Massachusetts, and if you asked me, that was the answer you would get.

Somewhere along the line, I changed my mind. I got a job. I rented an apartment. I had a place to call my own and decorate (or not). I had no roommates, and I was fully responsible for my own space. University was over and I was now living in DC, not just studying. All of a sudden, my family was in Massachusetts, but I was from DC. I knew the city better than my childhood town, and that blue house in the suburbs was where I spent one to two weeks a year, usually around the holidays.

But then things got complicated. One year, I decided my life needed more meaning. That October, I packed up and moved out of DC. That November, I spent the first Thanksgiving with my family in seven years. That Christmas I didn’t return to the blue house in the suburbs. That New Year’s Day I woke up on a stranger’s couch in California and ran up hills with hungover people dressed in neon. That February, I celebrated my birthday in South Korea.

If you ask me where I’m from, I will tell you Washington, DC, but I live in Korea, oh, and because you’re looking at me like that, no, I’m not Korean – my parents were born in Hong Kong, but I was raised in Massachusetts, so yes, that’s why I have an American accent.

But if you ask me where my home is, it’s not so simple (was it ever simple?). At one time, it was a blue house in the suburbs. Then I could point you to a small studio apartment in the heart of DC, but someone else lives there now, calls it their own, and decorates it (or doesn’t). And I could show you photos of a room in South Korea with a mat on the floor where I spend my nights, but there’s this feeling I’m chasing that just isn’t there.

Instead, I’ve seen glimpses of home on temporary bedspreads, dreamlike memories with perfect moments captured in mental photographs. I’ve felt home in the unlikeliest of places, with the most unexpected of families, lasting only for a short time before disappearing into the past:

On a quiet island beach with an elusive name, waves reaching for our feet, racing against the moonlight as we empty our last bottle. In a green, leaky tent with a broken zipper held together by rainbow clothespins, my only attempt at home maintenance on that isolated rice terrace against the cold mountain air. Under the covers of a stranger’s bed in my parent’s hometown, seeking passport stamps on a glowing green shirt while another stranger sleeps in the next room over.

So when you ask me about home, it’s easy to lie, to tell you about a place I used to live but haven’t seen in several years. It’s easy to talk about a blue house with black shutters or a studio apartment in a political city. But the truth is that somewhere along the way, I chose to leave the easy answers behind when I packed my bags and fell in love with an uncertain tomorrow.