In a little more than 2 weeks I will be going home.
Surely after nearly 30 years of sojourning at the other side of Pacific, home officially and logically should no longer be there but here. Somehow, habit has made it impossible to reverse the quote, even though in reality that home for the longest time never lived up to its name. Except for the language, nothing feels natural there: the culture, the life, the traffic, even the people that constitutes “family”.
Truth be told, time and space aren’t the guilty parties that contribute to this unfortunate sentiment. In growing up, there had always been much strain between me and the world I ever knew of such that I constantly felt the awkwardness like a fish out of water. I was the runt of the litter to start with: sickly, weak and needy. Later on, I failed to live up to the standards held by that of the culture and my own family. Despite all my good intentions and effort, I have not yet figured out how to live in harmony with them, let alone acquire their approval or even impress them. To them, I am forever a sad or sore thumb, undisciplined or too wild for my own good. I walk too fast, talk too loud and love and hate too much. Their open admonition or disapproval did not help either. Eventually I rightfully owned the ultimate crown, the black sheep of the family, in that I was nothing like them and thus inevitably followed the natural course to exile out of the country.
Such incompatibility between us continued on even with the safe distance of many oceans and lands. Whenever I am around them, the fear would overtake me despite of decades of life and experience I have gained from this part of the world. I would hopelessly reverse or regress to the same walking disaster as if I never left. The last few trips home in the past 10 years finally cured me of my homesickness. I came to the conclusion that less is more, farther is closer when it comes to visiting them.
Why is home not home? I have questioned time after time. Surely I couldn’t ask for more love and generosity than any family would give me. In fact I believe there isn’t anything that they would not spare for my sake. Unfortunately, my existence to them is better with distance or even in notion only. My last trip home was 4 years ago –and yet it feels like yesterday that I was back there on that top floor room, alone and abandoned like a caged animal – only totally gleeful and grateful. My family was all downstairs, carrying on with their life: my father watching his stock market’s up and down from the TV, my sister working on the computer, and my mother cleaning and cooking away at the kitchen. It was a safe haven for me: peaceful, quiet and away from all harm. When finally it was time to come down for meals, I’d trod down the 4 flies of stairs with my footsteps light and thoughts heavy with what I might say or do. In their presence, I would change into this guarded stranger that says little and listens much to avoid the wrong words to ever slip and incur their impatient yet well intended reprimands. To them, I have been this forever child, clumsy, unruly and helpless.
In contrast, this alien country has granted me much blessed asylum on the day when I landed. It didn’t take me long to realize that this “less civilized” culture with its tong twilling language, tasteless fast food and excessive modernization in fact did not at all try to condemn or conform me. I found it both liberating and fascinating that I was no longer under surveillance or better yet obligation to be who I should be. The family I have here started with someone with the most open mind and generous spirit who has accepted me since day one. Over the past 25 years, not a word of reproach has ever been raised against who I am, despite of our disagreements over many things. There is no need for tiptoeing or remorse with either words or works. My kitchen requires no scrubbing and my bed free to be unmade. I am my own mistress there! If I allow it, I can even feel confident and beautiful. I am home and free – almost. The only one that could ever disapprove me is none other than me.
My monologue seems to do its magic again, bringing my much troubled thought to yet another comforting revelation: No, I am not going home after all. I am already home. Nearly 3 decades later, it’s time for a change. I have done it in actions already, why not the name? As dreadful as the upcoming trip may be, I have this hope to keep me afloat in that while I am there I get to repeat the same words, “I am going home” - only this time with much joy and bliss.
Surely after nearly 30 years of sojourning at the other side of Pacific, home officially and logically should no longer be there but here. Somehow, habit has made it impossible to reverse the quote, even though in reality that home for the longest time never lived up to its name. Except for the language, nothing feels natural there: the culture, the life, the traffic, even the people that constitutes “family”.
Truth be told, time and space aren’t the guilty parties that contribute to this unfortunate sentiment. In growing up, there had always been much strain between me and the world I ever knew of such that I constantly felt the awkwardness like a fish out of water. I was the runt of the litter to start with: sickly, weak and needy. Later on, I failed to live up to the standards held by that of the culture and my own family. Despite all my good intentions and effort, I have not yet figured out how to live in harmony with them, let alone acquire their approval or even impress them. To them, I am forever a sad or sore thumb, undisciplined or too wild for my own good. I walk too fast, talk too loud and love and hate too much. Their open admonition or disapproval did not help either. Eventually I rightfully owned the ultimate crown, the black sheep of the family, in that I was nothing like them and thus inevitably followed the natural course to exile out of the country.
Such incompatibility between us continued on even with the safe distance of many oceans and lands. Whenever I am around them, the fear would overtake me despite of decades of life and experience I have gained from this part of the world. I would hopelessly reverse or regress to the same walking disaster as if I never left. The last few trips home in the past 10 years finally cured me of my homesickness. I came to the conclusion that less is more, farther is closer when it comes to visiting them.
Why is home not home? I have questioned time after time. Surely I couldn’t ask for more love and generosity than any family would give me. In fact I believe there isn’t anything that they would not spare for my sake. Unfortunately, my existence to them is better with distance or even in notion only. My last trip home was 4 years ago –and yet it feels like yesterday that I was back there on that top floor room, alone and abandoned like a caged animal – only totally gleeful and grateful. My family was all downstairs, carrying on with their life: my father watching his stock market’s up and down from the TV, my sister working on the computer, and my mother cleaning and cooking away at the kitchen. It was a safe haven for me: peaceful, quiet and away from all harm. When finally it was time to come down for meals, I’d trod down the 4 flies of stairs with my footsteps light and thoughts heavy with what I might say or do. In their presence, I would change into this guarded stranger that says little and listens much to avoid the wrong words to ever slip and incur their impatient yet well intended reprimands. To them, I have been this forever child, clumsy, unruly and helpless.
In contrast, this alien country has granted me much blessed asylum on the day when I landed. It didn’t take me long to realize that this “less civilized” culture with its tong twilling language, tasteless fast food and excessive modernization in fact did not at all try to condemn or conform me. I found it both liberating and fascinating that I was no longer under surveillance or better yet obligation to be who I should be. The family I have here started with someone with the most open mind and generous spirit who has accepted me since day one. Over the past 25 years, not a word of reproach has ever been raised against who I am, despite of our disagreements over many things. There is no need for tiptoeing or remorse with either words or works. My kitchen requires no scrubbing and my bed free to be unmade. I am my own mistress there! If I allow it, I can even feel confident and beautiful. I am home and free – almost. The only one that could ever disapprove me is none other than me.
My monologue seems to do its magic again, bringing my much troubled thought to yet another comforting revelation: No, I am not going home after all. I am already home. Nearly 3 decades later, it’s time for a change. I have done it in actions already, why not the name? As dreadful as the upcoming trip may be, I have this hope to keep me afloat in that while I am there I get to repeat the same words, “I am going home” - only this time with much joy and bliss.
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