Home?

I wasn’t technically born here, but I moved to the US so young that I don’t even remember India. I’ve never known what it’s like to live in India, or even visit. I moved to the US when I was three, and I never even visited India again until I was thirteen. In my head, India was just a place where some of my family lived, where I was technically supposed to be from. It felt like I wasn’t from anywhere. I couldn’t say I was from Michigan, because even though I’ve lived here for 2/3 of my life, I still wasn’t from here. And I wasn’t from India, because how could be from a place I don’t remember at all? A place where I don’t even speak the language? 

 

I remember one time when I was in the car with my dad. He told me that he would’ve preferred to stay in India, but my schooling would be better here. That moment stayed with me for months, and probably will for years. It had never occurred to me until then that my parents didn’t feel like Troy was their home, at least not completely. India was their home, where they grew up. But this revelation scared me. India wasn’t my home, not really. It was just a vague part of my identity. But my parents had literally given up their home for me. They had moved across the world for me. It probably wasn’t just for me, I know that logically, but at the time it really felt like I was a weight on their shoulders. That feeling only added weight onto my shoulders. If they came here just for me, I have to be worth it. I have to able to get a good job, live a good life here. Dennis-Behn’s experiences in “Swimmer” reminded me of this conversation. It felt like we were both in the same boat, under that pressure of following the “perfect immigrant” path.

 

Another car conversation I remember is wondering where my parents would go after I graduated college. We don’t have a house, so it’s not like they’re super attached to Troy. They can cancel the lease to our apartment much more easily than trying to sell a house. My dad told me that he would’ve probably go back to India. That only brought up the earlier conversation in my head. It was a reminder that my home wasn’t their home. While reading how Dennis-Behn felt like her father abandoned her at college, I wondered if this was how I would feel. India is a place that’s unfamiliar to me, that’s incomprehensible without my parents. The one time I visited, I could have never survived without my mom there. So in a way, it feels like they’re going out of my reach. It feels like they’re abandoning me in this place that I thought was our home, and I’m just supposed to survive here. Their sacrifice of living here for so many years should have finally paid off, and I should be able to get a good job and live my life. 

 

One of my friends and I were having a conversation about what we would do after college. She wanted to go back to India. She had lived there much longer than I ever had, long enough to at least remember what it’s like. It still surprised me though. The whole point of my parents coming to America was for me to have the schooling here and to get a good job here. This moment is what came to my head when I read the last paragraph of “Swimmer.” Our versions of India and America are different. Her India is a place that’s familiar, where her parents grew up and her identity is. My India is a place that’s just out of reach, that feels like it should be familiar but just isn’t. 

 

To me, America feels like home. It’s the only place I’ve ever known. But it also doesn’t. If it was home, why do I have to work so hard to stay? How can you be an immigrant to your home? So, where is my home?