Where the Heart Is: Where are we?
How do you define something that means so many different things to so many different people?
How do you define something that means so many different things to so many different people?
Whenever I go home, I visit a bench overlooking the river valley. It’s one of my favourite spots in Edmonton. The city, and the memories it contains, spread out in a panorama.
Calgary is commonly associated with conservativism, oil and gas, extremely cold weather and most importantly, being cowboy crazy. This is something I have run into whenever I introduce myself as a Calgarian. And for the most part, these are all true.
As a child, my parents would take the three of us kids to T&T to buy doujiang. The predictability of the store was comforting. White waxed floors, edged by subtle grime; the smell of plastic wrap and the mist they sprayed to keep the vegetables fresh. The bright lights, the temperature, the layout — these elements create theoretically perfect conditions, yet are too sterile to make me feel at home.
My family moved to Winnipeg when I was seven — another family in a long migration of those leaving their homes to start again in what seemed like an isolated tundra. We subscribed to all the Filipino things available to us in Canada: church, any bakery with good pandesal and other Filipinos.
And when I finally succeeded in escaping my hometown, I became crudely aware of my origin. “I am from Pune,’’ is a line I will be repeating until one day I give up, seeing people’s confusion and just say Mumbai. It’s easier — geographic simplifications never hurt anyone.
If I am truly honest with myself, Ottawa isn’t that cold — it grows warmer in my memory the longer I am away.
Painting a portrait of Istanbul is impossible — laughable, even.
I always believed I was someone whose life was in constant motion — at least that’s what I believed when I first left Vancouver in May of last year. And yet, seeing the familiar Vancouver grid come into view from above, I discovered a discomforting warmth arising with my arrival “home.”
A few days ago, a friend asked me how many times I had moved growing up, I paused as though the answer wasn’t simple. I had never moved. I grew up in one 732 square kilometre city in the same house and graduated from the same school I had entered 14 years earlier.
I have a complicated indifference toward Surrey. It never felt much more than a name on the map.
I am from a small town in the middle of Vietnam, so small and uninteresting that I never explicitly mention it unless people ask.
I feel a deep sense of belonging to a city where superficially, I don’t belong. Is it fair for me to call Manila home when I’ve grown up in a bubble of privilege and foreigners living in the exact same situation as me?
There’s a coastal stretch of land inside the smallest state in the US. It sits along an oceanic passage as if hugging the brisk Atlantic. It’s a sub-rural area but large enough in size that it stretches halfway across the state. It’s quaint, sunny, lively and historic. It’s nothing like busy, fast-paced Vancouver.
Lady Bird said it best: “I have to get out of Sacramento … Because it’s soul-killing. It’s the Midwest of California.”