There is a popular saying that goes, “A house can be home, but a home can’t be a house.” I wholeheartedly resonate with this.
What truly makes a home? Is it the location, emotional connection, people, sense of belonging, or a combination of all of the above?
If so, where exactly is home for immigrants?
I was having a friendly discourse with my immigrant friend, and I mentioned how I won’t be going home for Christmas break because of basketball. And they asked, “Where exactly is home?” This drove me into deep thoughts. The mention of “home” always does because it reminds me of the predicament.
In my early days of living in the U.S., I typically avoided using the word “home”. Rather, I would say house, apartment, room, dorm, etc. Saying the former felt dishonest to me. Home used to be a word of great importance and meaning to me. Living in the U.S. made the idea of home unfamiliar. I have lived In the U.S. of A for over half a decade. And in this period, I have lived with 5 families, attended 6 different schools, and lived in a total of 6 states. You can call me a nomad. Honestly, it’s not entirely by choice but mostly due to circumstances.
During this time I’ve lost the feeling of home. I have never had the opportunity to fully settle down. All I do I adapt to wherever I am, which is mainly a survival mechanism. The familiar feeling of being at home is nonexistent. Moving away from the country where your home used to be will do that to you.
It is important to note that along the way, I have met some wonderful people that feel like home. Sometimes the feeling lies in music, familiar faces, tastes, and, smells. But they are often sparse. Nothing long-lasting.
The number of years I’ve lived in the U.S. still doesn’t make it home. I’d say not yet anyways.
Truth is, I will always be an immigrant, a foreigner despite my documentation. This is my reality and the reality of many other immigrants.
The part that gets me is when your home country begins to feel foreign as well. Now you’re stuck in Limbo. Feeling like no place is home can be quite lonely and depressing.
Although I haven’t visited Nigeria since I migrated, I have heard stories from my immigrant friends who have. One mentioned how they had to move up their flight because while things felt familiar, they also felt significantly different. I understand this. Time doesn’t stop and change follows suit. Therefore, nothing stays the same.
My current knowledge about my hometown is gained through social media, immediate family, and friends. The home I knew before no longer exists. Everything seems the same but feels totally different. Also, the old me that lived there doesn’t exist anymore. I have evolved, which is well expected. Most times when I speak to my friends back in Nigeria, they tell me how completely different I look and also sound. Seven years away would do that. Factoring all this in, I can’t help but wonder just how homey it would feel when I eventually visit Nigeria.
The truth is, I love not being tied down to any location because I believe this era of my life is for exploration. And I love the journey. I get to chase my dreams despite the location. I get to up and move to wherever the opportunity takes me. But that doesn’t void the fact that I miss having roots. I miss feeling and being at home. I want to travel and explore with the thought that home awaits me.
I am not writing this from a place of profound sadness. It’s more like a realization of the not-so-glamorous part of the migration. It is all part of the journey. In all challenges, I strive to remain hopeful. I am hopeful that in the nearest future, I will build a home for myself. A place with my favorite people, where I have a strong emotional connection to, and where I feel comfortable enough to rest. A home where I can always feel excited to return to after all my venturing.
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