When I’m asked, “where is home for you?” I hesitate to answer. Do you mean here at
Kalamazoo? Back in California? Or in my heart?
I don’t know what to answer. I would love to say that Mexico
is my home. I was raised there so it’s justifiable. The years of freedom that I
felt each day I woke up, the freedom that my mother felt, and the freedom that
I do not share with California. In other words, not been or trying to be
visible. Knowing that we were in a place where our citizenship was never going
to be questioned. Where my mother was able to walk every day like she owned the
place. The freedom that I felt seeing my mother happy and where I knew that
they will never take her away from my arms. That same freedom that I do not
share within LA, Santa Ana, South Central, and Westlake.
Why? Well I’ve lived in California for almost 15 years. I’ve
moved from city to city within California trying to find a better life. I’ve gone long distances to find “my home”.
I’ve been blind all this time trying to understand what is it that I’m missing
every time that I move. By missing I mean that most of the time I’m not happy
in the place that I am. Is it the place that I’ve come to recognize as my home
or is it the fact that my family is broken because of the fact that we were all
trying to find a home?
The warmth of a
mothers hugs after school, the night kisses before going to sleep, the morning wake
ups before going to school was what I was missing. There was never a male
figure there because of his aspirations of his little girls to become something
valuable in life. I’ve been trying to understand why that wouldn’t be home for
me. I’ve come to understand that the reason is because there was never time for
my mother and father to give us that kind of home. I don’t blame them for not
giving us that kind of environment and I don’t feel ashamed for them actually
working hard for what they believed. My mother has been strong, carrying the
pain of her struggle, leaving her homeland and coming to a place where I consider
her a slave. I don’t want you to misinterpret my point here, but my mother is
still a slave and she will always be until the time of her death. The work that
she does, from 6 am to 6 pm, 12 hrs a day, 8 hrs to sleep, to recover from the
hard work that she has done in 12 hrs and getting paid minimum wage. I consider
that slave labor. Out of 24 hrs in a day 20 of those hours are gone. 4 hrs are
now left for freedom, in other words, time to be able to spend time with her
daughters in order to catch up with their lives and what they are struggling
with. So now, to answer your question where is home? Home is my mother, my
sisters, and my father, knowing that my mother is in Cali, my sisters in
school, and my father in Mexico. After all, my family is my home and it splits
in three directions.
Your story of your home made me cry because I can relate to it in several ways. I am glad that you shared this story with us all because for the first time in class this year, I feel that I can relate to someone else's story. My family, too, is my home, but the one difference in our story is the locations of my father. When you said that your home is split in three directions, I couldn't have felt any closer to you. My mom also works 12 hours a day, and she is the best in her office, works overtime as well, but they still do not give her a raise. My siblings are all at home, except myself and my brother away in college elsewhere. My father, well, he would and I guess, according to his birthplace and no documents, is supposed to be in Samoa. However, we are blessed to have him here with us. Like your parents, my mom and her kids moved to California from American Samoa to receive better education, and I do not quite understand how it happened, but I remember coming home from school one elementary school day and my dad was sitting in my grandparents' backyard waiting for us to come home. Days before that, I felt my home was split in two directions, until he arrived. To sum it up, I am glad that you discovered that your home is your family, and I am glad that you know where they are at. Family IS home, and it feels good to know that my idea of home is the same as another student's idea of home.
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ReplyDeleteThis concept of "home" is one that has been on my mind lately, prompted especially by our class discussions of our origins and roots. I was influenced to believe that our 'homes' were physical and tangible places, a state, a region, or that house on that street. Though, your writing has reminded me of the possibility to find home in people, those around you that are your comfort and stability. I really appreciate your redefinition of the word 'home' at the end of your piece, applying it not only to your sisters, father or mother, but also to ideas: "knowing that my mother is in Cali, my sisters in school, and my father in Mexico". Just the simple thought of them is enough to bring you peace, to find home. We share similar perspectives on this concept of family as home. I was raised under the pretenses of 'family first': no matter the situation. These people, united by blood are the constants in this lifetime. Thank you for making me think.
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