Wednesday, September 28, 2016 // The Statement
7B
by Lydia Murray, Daily Staff Reporter
I’ve Moved Around a Lot
A
s someone who dreads the inevitable question of
“Where are you from?” I’ve learned a crafty answer
to the complicated question. For people I will
never see again, I’ll say I’m from Michigan, citing a city
I lived in for at least a year or two. Sometimes, if I’m feel-
ing bold, I’ll lie and make up a hometown, usually a place
I’ve at least visited — Baltimore, Connecticut or Auckland.
During classroom introductions, my M.O. is omitting the
hometown part of the line of questioning and hoping no
one notices.
But for those who I will see on a regular basis, I have to
at least try to tell the truth: I don’t have a hometown. “It’s
complicated” I often start, followed by “I moved around a
lot” or “I was born in Michigan, but I lived overseas for a
lot of my life.”
This, of course, always leads to follow up questions of
where and when, but then most people forget without
truly understanding.
Growing up around the globe was the most incredible,
rewarding experience I could have asked for. In my life-
time, I have lived in three countries and nine houses. I’ve
traveled to more countries than the number of years I’ve
been on this earth by a margin of almost 10. I’ve spent
Thanksgiving watching the sunrise over the Angkor Wat
temple in Cambodia; Christmas in Auckland, New Zea-
land, at a McDonald’s, waiting to catch a flight to Christ-
church; and New Year’s watching the fireworks off the
banks of Venice.
But with all the glory and adventure associated with my
third-culture kid life, there are hardships that have left
scars on my personality. I’ve lost more best friends than
most kids have in a lifetime. No one outside of my imme-
diate family can really claim they’ve known me my whole
life. I don’t have a specific place to call home.
While most kids counted down the days to summer, I
dreaded it, because a summer never passed when a friend
— or myself — didn’t move away. I remember numerous
days spent crying as yet another best friend moved away.
And this sentiment carried over into my life at college.
Coming to the University of Michigan, I thought finally
I would have an uninterrupted four years where no one
would leave me, but this illusion was quickly shattered. At
a school with a 97-percent retention rate, two of my friends
made plans to transfer. With a class size of approximately
6,000, this meant just 180 people would leave — and I was
best friends with two of them.
During my last week of exams, I watched all of my
friends go home for the summer as I prepared to remain in
Ann Arbor, with my family still 7,000 miles away. I tried my
best to keep myself together as I watched my best friends
pack up their rooms, knowing they would not be returning.
Somehow I managed to hide my despair as I waved good-
bye after they packed their final boxes, but as soon as their
backs were turned, I ran up to my room to wallow. This
wasn’t supposed to happen here. I was supposed to have
four whole years.
A friend told me the other day that she thought I hated
her when we first met because I was so quiet. I’m sorry to
anyone if I seem that way. It’s hard sometimes to let myself
make friends when I live with the constant expectation
that they will just leave again soon.
And friendships are not the only difficult aspect. In
part, I’ve come dislike most holidays since returning to
the United States. You could argue that I’ve simply become
spoiled from my glamourous travels, but my issue mostly
stems from a lack of real tradition or sentiment attached to
them — especially Thanksgiving.
Last year at Thanksgiving I discovered what it is like
to be the only person living in South Quad. Fun fact: If no
one else is using the showers, there is no warm water. That
weekend I watched Netflix and called home at a predeter-
mined time, accounting for the 12-hour time difference to
see my family enjoying the few days off with a vacation in
Gui Lin, China. I would check Instagram and Facebook
and see other people’s family photos and golden turkeys,
while hiding under the covers in my empty dorm room.
With every passing holiday my first year in college, I was
reminded of what normal kids do — Memorial Day barbe-
cues, giant Christmas parties with extended family, New
Year’s bashes with hometown friends. These are all things
I didn’t feel like I missed out on until suddenly I had no
family and no adventure to supplement traditional activi-
ties.
But this year, Thanksgiving will be different. Instead
of 20 hours via plane from me, my family is a 30-minute
drive down the highway — with no traffic. I can go home
not only for Christmas but for Mid-Autumn Festival and
Thanksgiving or just to do laundry.
Nonetheless, this new home isn’t my hometown. I don’t
have childhood memories playing in the backyard. I have
no childhood friends waiting. Those memories and those
people are scattered in India, China, Singapore, the United
Kingdom and many others.
But just because I lack a hometown doesn’t mean I lack a
home. Home may not be a city filled with a string of memo-
ries dating back to my first steps. It may not come with a
collection of friends who have known me since kindergar-
ten. But home is where I walk in the door to be greeted by
my energetic Border collie. Home is where I can eat rice
and stir fry every day while laughing at the dinner table
with my sisters. Home isn’t about the place, it’s about the
people, the feeling and the atmosphere.
And this new home in Random Suburb No. 9 is only
temporary. Already my family discussions center around
the next step, the next place. Los Angeles, Rio, Stockholm,
Tijuana. But no matter if home is thousands of miles away
or just a few blocks down the road, I know it will always
be there for me.
ILLUSTRATION BY ELISE HAADSMA