on home
As I write this, I’m sitting in an almost-too-charming-to-exist coffee shop in West Seattle, waiting to reconnect with a friend I haven’t seen in person in … a decade? Could that be? I’ve just finished the last of my speaking gigs for the year, and I’m going home on the red-eye tonight. I have several hours to kill, so when my friend suggested we meet, I leaped at the chance. We will catch up, and then I’ll begin my long trek back home.
I’ve been thinking about “home” a lot, and not just because recently, Marcus and I have been watching a fascinating series called Home on Apple TV+. (Have you seen it? It explores the homes of people from around the world, not just their houses of astonishing architecture, but also their views on family, their sense of community, and their concern for the planet. Such an intriguing series.) If I’m honest, I think about the meaning of “home” a lot. I suppose this isn’t particularly unusual for an immigrant: I spent my formative years in Trinidad, but most of my life in the southern United States. While I’m certainly most familiar with Houston, Texas, my home will always be Trinidad & Tobago – and strangely, mostly Tobago, even though I never lived on that island. (I grew up in a small fishing village in Mayaro on Trinidad, though, and the communities on Tobago remind me most of my childhood – Mayaro is now very much a bustling town.) Marcus considers Cornwall, England home, and while his village is nothing like Mayaro, even to me there are moments when it feels very familiar, so that I deeply empathize with the elements that make it feel like home to him. But what’s most intriguing is watching how our daughter Alex defines home: she is Texas Proud, and Houston is where her heart is, but it’s a memory of home that is also shaped by the distinctly Trinidadian and British customs of her parents, not to mention her own independent exploration into Mexican and Afro-Colombian culture, the heritages of her birth family.
They say “home is where the heart is,” but in my experience, home is where you exhale. Where your shoulders drop. And while that might be the place of your birth, it might also be the place of your family. Or your dearest friends. Or partner. Or your culture. Or even your favourite coffeehouse. I also think that home can change, depending on your location or the evolution or transition of your communities. Our old house felt like home, but after rebuilding from Hurricane Harvey, our new house feels more like home than our old house ever did. I’ve lived in Houston for decades, but the city has never felt more “home” than any single minute I’m in the Caribbean Sea. I’ve even felt “home” because of a song, or a scent. (The smell of guavas or mangoes always makes me feel home.) And don’t get me started on food. (I know those of you who are American and celebrating Thanksgiving this week understand exactly what I’m talking about.)
Home, I think, is not a static thing.
This week, our little family took a big step in expanding our definition of “home,” and this time it involves Marcus’ homeland, in a city that neither of us has ever lived. It’s a gamble, of course, but we’re not planning on any permanent relocations anytime soon, so it feels like a somewhat safe bet. Still, the coming months and years are going to be all about exploring a new concept of “home” in a deeply personal, impactful way. I’ll let you know how it goes.
All this to say: I hope you all, this week or in the coming holiday months, have an opportunity to go “home.” I hope you do so whether it involves travel or not, whether it involves birth family or chosen family, whether it involves your physical location or listening to music or eating familiar food or, hell, sitting in your favourite almost-too-charming-to-exist coffee shop.
May you exhale deeply.
And may I be the first to wish you comfort and joy.
Sometimes the body knows.