Home. A tiny piece of land across from Seattle in Washington in the United States named Bainbridge Island. A big yellow house in the forest. My bedroom and its view of the driveway and trees. The place I lived from birth to the age of 18. The place I took my first steps, experienced my first heartbreak, and grew into the person I am today.
Before we get to Bainbridge Island, let’s go back to the year 1937 in Hungary. It was right before World War II. My Grandma, Lilly, a part of a Jewish family was seven years old and had to pack up what she could and leave the country. Lilly and her family desperately tried to board a ship in order to escape the impending Nazi regime. The crew was not letting any more people board, however, through a connection of Lilly’s father one of the crew members allowed their family on. There were three ships headed out of Hungary. Two were bombed, one survived. Given that I am here and alive now, my Grandma was fortunate to be on the one ship that survived. This ship ended up in Quebec, Canada. From here my Grandma grew up on a farm with her family, eventually got married, had two children, and moved to Los Angeles, California. That’s where my parents came in. Right before my twin brother and I were born, they set out for Bainbridge Island.
Within this story, however, are the smaller stories my Grandma likes to tell that really embodies what home means to her. She shares a story of when she was four years old playing at a river by her house and falls in. A stranger saved her life. This river, therefore, is an important symbol of not only my Grandma’s life but her sense of home. She taught me that home isn’t always a place, rather it is the stories that make up our lives.
Though I speak with my Grandma often about her life and the places she considers home, it is interesting to think about all my relatives before her and their stories. Thinking about my family and their stories makes me think about all the stories I would tell my future children about my sense of home.
I’ll begin by sharing a story about my childhood that symbolizes home.
Every day after school as a kid my friend Hannah and I would be picked up by her mom in her green minivan and attend ballet class. After class, we would go to a bagel shop and then a place called Battlepoint park. I don’t really remember what games we played or what jokes we told, but when I go back to these places now I’m reminded of the warm feeling I used to get when I spent time with my friend Hannah after ballet class. I’m also reminded of the deep sadness I felt and the tears I shed when she wasn’t at school in the morning, worried that we wouldn’t be able to go to dance class together that afternoon. Now and then I think of these places and the memories they bare and I feel as though I am home. Hannah passed away many years ago, but my memory of her is home.
Home is where my brothers and I fight about who has to sit in the middle seat in the car.
Home is also physical, though it does not have to be in the same physical space. Evergreen trees, for example, will always remind me of home. Heavy rainstorms, kayaking in cold water or eating ice cream. I am home.
Things are different now that I do not live with my family on Bainbridge Island anymore. There is a bright side: I am learning that it is possible to have many homes, as I now consider Vancouver one of them.
