A Place Like Home

My earliest memory in life was looking at a tiny rocking chair at two years old and thinking, “I’m going to sit there, think about the Wizard of Oz, and poop my pants.” Though I’ve outgrown the rocking chair and my diapers in the years since, my fascination with Dorothy in Oz has remained—the dream of clicking one’s heels and arriving in a place like home. From birth, I moved every two to three years of my life, with nine school changes before graduating high school. Best friends, crushes, mentors, and acquaintances were all scattered in the wind every time the tornado descended to take me away. I never found a way back to these places; there were no ruby slippers.

By the time I was 18, I had internalized the inertia of these moves, choosing whatever path took me the farthest away from my comfort zone. For college I moved to northern Alabama from the Florida Keys because it was the farthest I could reasonably go. When my parents moved to Japan, I hopped on a flight as soon as the Spring semester ended. I sought adventure of course, but I was also seeking something else: strangers in strange lands. The friends I made tutoring English in Japan were predominately non-Japanese international students. When I worked a corporate job in Alabama after graduating college, my respite was going to New Orleans on weekends and staying at a hostel with backpackers from around the world. During my years in Australia and New Zealand, the closest friends I made were Europeans and South Americans. Feeling an outsider myself, I thrived in their company, and I have since met plenty more like me.

If one travels long enough, one finds oneself in a strange condition. One becomes a permanent Dorothy in Oz, with no place like home. I spent much of my life envying classmates and friends who were from whatever place the tornado spat me out. This envy arose from a misunderstanding; I thought their homes were something they were born with or discovered. I thought, like in Oz, homes fell from the sky. But after looking for years all over the world for one without success, I’ve realized the truth: homes are not inherited or discovered; they are built. They must be maintained or they deteriorate. And they hardly need be places. For me, there is no place like home; there are people. Most of them are anomalies within their cultures. I have found them slowly over time, and I visit them and rekindle our friendships the way another might reseal their porch or weed their garden. My home grows larger with each face, warmer with each laugh, hardier with each setback, and grander with each day. This blog is my platform to introduce these friends to each other. It is the foundation for a place like home.