For a person like me, a nomad, defining the concept of home has always been a struggle. I have always felt like an alien in my hometown, not really belonging to the flock of people, not really fully liking or understanding what they did and why they did it. But while settling (for short periods of time) throughout the world, I have always found myself longing for “Home” in those moments where the cultural barriers got too evident, or when the paperwork got too complicated, or even when I got lost in translation (try understanding the back of a detergent bottle in French with your Duolingo basic knowledge).
And it is those brief moments of frustration that make you realize that no matter what you do, you will always be a foreigner in every place that you go. And even if you walk the walk and talk the talk, there will always be that slight accent that will slip and blow your cover. So, where do I belong exactly? That question, I’m afraid, will never have a flat, uncomplicated answer.
Soon enough, there comes the holiday season, or some relative’s wedding and you come back “home” for a while. At first it’s fine, with all the warm hugs and hearty welcomes. The familiar smells haven’t changed a bit and the creaks on the floor are still in the same spot as they have always been. The familiarity is too intense. You know so well the path between the walls of this place that you could close your eyes and blind-walk through the hallways without bumping into a wall. You know precisely where to turn, when to stop and where the next door, or next step, will be. You know, by matter of repetition and habit, that if you don’t raise your foot a little bit more on that last step, you will probably trip. Because everyone always trips.
This, by all means, is the definition of home, something you know by heart. Right? Only, it is not.
“Home” was always a shoe that did not quite fit, it was always a song you couldn’t quite catch the beat of. “Home” was always a blessing, a curse, a cage, a stage, a nest, a place you had to get away from, a place you had to come back to. “Home” was something you loved with all your heart, it was something you secretly disliked but couldn’t admit it. “Home” was always nourishing, it always took your energy away, “Home” was a paradox, it was a puzzle, it was too confortable, too complicated. Whatever “Home” was, there was one thing that always remained constant: it was not were you belonged.
So, naturally, I can’t help but wonder, why do I long for something I don’t really relate to? I think I’m closer to unraveling the answer to this question. I have realized, firstly, that there was nothing wrong with “Home”. But there was also nothing wrong with me, for that matter.
And here comes the revelation of the century: the ugly duckling was never ugly. He was also never a duckling. When I recently re-read the story of the ugly duckling, it hit surprisingly close to home. It made me realize that in fact, I wasn’t the only one who felt like this, like I couldn’t adapt to do or be what was expected of me. I couldn’t settle for the city, I had to have the world. It was not because I was arrogant, or foolish. It was because I was never a duckling to begin with.
To refresh your memory, “The Ugly Duckling” is about an ugly duckling that is clearly different than his fellow brother and sister ducklings. He was always made fun of, laughed at, left behind. He never found his place in the flock. It is until one day, when they were swimming by the lake that they come across a flock of swans, elegantly drifting through the water. It was then when the ugly duckling realizes that he was not a duck but a swan, and he was not ugly, just a completely different species of bird. Which, to his good fortune, would grow up to be quite an attractive one. But that’s not the point. The point is that he found that there was nothing ever wrong with him. He was just misplaced.
If they did a sequel of that story, I’m pretty sure the duckling (who is actually a swan and we should start calling him that) would find that he was grateful to finally see the world side by side swans who thought and looked and ate and swam like him. But I’m also pretty sure the duckling (sorry, swan) would miss “Home”, even if “Home” never quite fit him well.
Everywhere that you go, everything that you’ve done, has led up to the exact moment where you are right now. And if you are a nomad, like me, you have met a lot of people along the way. And in some of this people, you have found “Home”. “Home” is not a geographic location, but rather a compilation of Camis and Marthas and Julis and Almas. It might be a year or more between the last time you spoke to them, but the seed was planted, and it does not need the gardener’s stare to grow and bloom. When the seed is good you know that when you come back the flower will be there. “Home” is not a specific address, but rather the shared dark humor that you will never have to explain. Because no joke is ever funny if you have to translate it.
And that’s the thing I have learned about “Home”. Home is not something you can leave behind or move out of. You never really leave home, you carry home within you.
