I write to assure second-generation migrants that while there is truly no place like home, we will always carry our homeland within us wherever we go.
Browsing: home
There’s something about crisp, genuinely frozen air in the morning. Being able to see your breath in front of you. A real sunset every night, electric colours across the sky. Real seasons, from a genuinely sweltering summer to below-zero winters.
Sitting at the park, I have lost track of time. I will never finish this editorial if I don’t take a step back and protect my writing from my overthinking.
Ironically, it seems geographical and cultural gaps permit students and parents to view one another more holistically than episodically.
That was the first time I had left Bangladesh behind, not quite realising that the feeling of loss I was experiencing was, in fact, homesickness, for a place I wasn’t born to, for a language I have now lost fluency in, and a family I could not grow up with.
When I’m cooking dinner, I’ll hop outside to trim some leaves off my plants, taking care not to thin out the foliage too much, taking from the top, not the bottom. Rinse your herbs well before consuming them. Savour their flavour. The love I cook into my dishes tastes like home-grown basil.
I am grateful that you never throw anything out. If you will not tell me about your life, I will at least be able to piece it together through your belongings.
The evolution of changing built realities is not just related to what the structure of a home will look like, but also what it would feel like to reside in it.
I feel a sense of shame associated with admitting how disorganised my room is. When I have people over, I apologise for the state of my room reflexively, even when I’ve spent ages cleaning it. I’m not so sure, however, that messiness is the flaw we treat it as. I think messy rooms are worth defending.
My place, despite its failures, is still a place of love, reflection and, dare I say it, beauty.
