home, redux

I think a lot about what it means to be “home.”

When I was growing up, my father worked for an oil company, and as was common back in the late 70s, 80s and even early 90s, oil company execs were often given international assignments of about two years. Because of this, from age 5 to when I graduated high school, we moved back and forth between Trinidad and the United States every two years or so. (After I graduated high school, my parents continued to move frequently until well after I finished law school, to countries that most notably included Norway and Azerbaijan. But those are stories for other times.) For this reason, “home,” for me, can get somewhat complicated.

At this point, I’ve lived far more years in the United States than in Trinidad, but Trinidad always feels more like home to me. It is, after all, my birthplace. It’s the culture of my parents, and therefore the culture of the house(s) I grew up in. My extended family lived there. Also, it’s the country where I have to explain myself the least. Unlike in the United States, my Blackness is never questioned. (And let’s face it, when you’re an immigrant to a country where your mere existence can be considered suspect, for all sorts of reasons and very frequently in tiny, insidious ways, it’s hard to feel completely at home. Even when your documentation may indicate otherwise, and no matter how familiar it gets.) Trinidad is where the flavours and music and customs and cultural touchstones feel most natural. But over time, and despite our living there for a few years when our daughter Alex was a toddler (and loving every minute of it), it has become more and more difficult to return, and I have resigned myself to the fact that my chances of living there with any sort of permanence are close to nil.

I’m married, of course, to a Brit, and as I’m documenting in The Make Light Project, our chances of returning to his homeland with any sort of permanence are high and continuing to rise. But while in the US I have a bit of the advantage in my ability to speak with an accent that sounds American, that advantage dissipates quickly when I set foot on British soil. I am clearly not English. So I can’t help but wonder if England will ever feel like home. (That said, when we were in Bath earlier this year, we met two locals at a pub and I asked them how long we would have to live here for us to finally be considered Bathonians. “You can never be considered a Bathonian if you weren’t born here,” they said. “But you’re allowed to say you’re ‘from Bath” if you have a pub you frequent, and the pub owner recognizes you and calls you by name.” I’m happy to report that Marcus and I are making huge strides in being “from Bath.”)

*“From Bath.” Or, a friend of mine suggested we call ourselves “Bathers.” I dig it.*

Last week, violent storms ripped through Southeast Texas, leaving a path of destruction in its wake – trees were down everywhere, skyscrapers in downtown Houston had their windows blown out, and at the time of this writing, six people lost their lives to the weather. (The footage of the storm was stunning.) Our home was thankfully spared, but we lost power for a spell, and internet for even longer. They both eventually returned. Our daughter Alex is away at her job as a staff member of a summer camp, and the camp wasn’t so lucky: they lost power for an extended period. So during their time off over the weekend, Alex packed up a few coworkers who live in other, more distant parts of the state, and brought them home to Houston so they could escape the heat, do some laundry and generally rest for a minute before returning. Did they feel at “home”? I suspect not: we have a comfortable house and Alex is a gracious host, so I’m sure they felt welcome and safe, but I think “home” is more elusive than that. Home also requires familiarity. And belonging. And a sort of ease. And I imagine that those things require time.

Anyway. I’m rambling, and I’m not sure I have any answers. But my wish for all of us this week is, even if it’s somewhat elusive, that we nonetheless feel some semblance of home – that at some point we experience feelings of safety, and belonging, and familiarity, and ease.