Chapter Text
I was born in one country. I moved to another when I was very young. I went back for a while, but only briefly.
I don't remember much from back home. I don't know if I'm even allowed to call it home anymore. Why should I? I don't see my family often. I don't know where my grandparents live, who the president is, or the social conflicts of the land. I only lived there for a short part of my life. And I don't even remember most of it. Hell, I’d even go as far as saying I don't remember any of it.
Well, no. I remember some things. I remember the smell of the mist in the mornings. I remember having to check my bed covers at night for scorpions. I remember going to school in the mountains and seeing the fog in the soccer court made out of asphalt every morning. I remember the uniforms I had, how the zipper of my sport uniform would cut my leg every time I took a step.
I remember family dinners. I remember the radio in the kitchen. I remember the cleaning lady and holding my mother’s hand in the supermarket so she could keep an eye on me. I remember picking up my older sister from her martial arts classes after gymnastics. I remember the market where my sister and I would buy dresses and furniture for our Barbies.
But that's not enough, is it? It's just glimpses of my family through the eyes of a kid who remembers the good stuff. I'm a tourist there. I go during school breaks. I don't live there anymore. I don't go to school there. I don't speak my native language as much as I'm supposed to. My own family doesn't consider me from there, so why should I?
But I'm also not from here. My accent is too strong, my hair too thick and dark. My body tans and doesn't burn in the summer. I can handle dozens of spices in a single spoon. No. I'm not from here. I can never truly speak the languages like someone who grew up here, without stuttering or stopping to find the words I need. I didn't grow up watching the same shows. I don't ski or snowboard. I can't handle the cold, and I can't bring myself to like the foods people here love. I don't like the music most people listen to. I can't give directions to tourists. I barely go outside.
No, I'm not from here, even with the documents and the years I've spent here. Even I can see this. I don't need another person to tell me. I know.
Sometimes I think I'm from nowhere. Like the bastard daughter of two places nobody wants, forever left unwanted. Sometimes, when I'm feeling less like nothing, I'm a mix. I see that I'm better because of the places that shaped me. I'm the product of the very best things both cultures have to offer.
Although the closest thing I can use to describe me would be disconnected. I'm disconnected from my culture, from my family, from a life I could have had. I'm not trying to come off as ungrateful though. I know my life would have been different and definitely not the idea I have in my head. But I still wonder sometimes what would have happened if my family had stayed. If I had been able to see my family more. What would they think of me? What would it have been like to stay with the same people all my life? To grow up with someone other than my sister? To see someone else grow up?
But I can't change the past. I'll admit, though, that these experiences helped me. I know more about the world because of them. I don't know everything, far from it, but for someone my age, I know a lot. After so many schools you're bound to eventually pick up on some things.
I know about people and about change. I know about cruelty and kindness, and how much those things can change a life. I know about friendship, perseverance, patience, love, grief, and regret. And I'm grateful for all of them, because I can help other people because of them.
I can help myself.