home

I find myself incredibly grateful now, finally, for things that I always should’ve been grateful for.

Your slang and your streets became familiar, and without even realizing it, I had come to call you home.

Leaving home is such a strange thing. I came to Berkeley, California, last year and told myself that I would never look back.

Unfortunately, sorority girls are observant. Like I said, there are no secrets beyond our perfectly manicured lawns and Greek letters.

Contained in that cup were East Coast strip malls, cowboy hats in 100-degree heat and homemade face masks made from linen freckled with various dogs. Inside that cup was chicken soup for the lost soul.

I went about my day carrying what felt like a dirty little secret, that I was craving a celebration I didn’t know how to ask for.

I felt like my life was now in Berkeley, where most of my friends and happiest memories reside, and coming back home felt like leaving that all behind. Home no longer felt like home.

Dear childhood home, I saw it coming. I can’t lie to you and say that I didn’t. After 10 years of living in Bahrain, I knew mom and dad would eventually want to leave the Middle East. I guess I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon. When I left for college, I didn’t realize how little time we’d have together. 

A few days ago I was scrolling through Instagram and stumbled upon a screenshot of a Tumblr post that said, “Wasn’t that the definition of home? Not where you are from, but where you are wanted.”

I looked at myself, decked out in the same brands that once eluded me, that once wielded such power over me. Is this what made me American?