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