Home began with Akron. Home was stroganoff and pasties, spaghetti and mac and cheese. Home was lazy Saturdays and church on Sundays. Home was reading the days away and dancing the evenings away. Home was snow and hot chocolate, summers at the lake and Farmer Boy. Home was Springfield Lake and the Derby Downs, Goodyear and Canton Road.
But then I went to college in Bowling Green, and I saw how home could be cornfields and sunsets, small town laughter and Main Street. Home could be Grounds for Thought and Kroger, simplicity and solitude. I learned that home could be hummus and tabouleh, shawarma and dolma. Home could be tea and warm socks, Bananagrams and naps.
And then I moved to Southwest Philadelphia, where I learned that home could be rowhouses and asphalt, porch sitting and boisterous laughter. Home could be close proximity and corner stores, pigeons and hair braiding. Home could be Woodland Avenue and Elmwood, the 36 and the 11. I learned that home could be pasteles and collard greens, taro and arroz con gandules, kimchi and water ice. Home could be Chinatown and West Philly, Kensington and Center City.
Back in Akron, I'm learning home in a different way. Home that is Summit Lake and South Akron. Home that is the taqueria and the Asian market, taro milk tea and the barbershop. Home that is recovery and re-entry, refugee and reconciliation. Home that is Hmong and Nepali and Bhutanese and Italian and Laotian and Congolese. Home that is rich in culture and story.
A few weeks ago I was walking through Chinatown in Chicago. It was not even a walk really, it was a stroll. I was drinking taro milk tea from Joy Yee as I went into shop after shop, soaking it all in. Ginseng. Teas. Goods. Dim Sum. Everything you could imagine--it was here. I was an observer in a space that I would not identify with home for myself. Not much was familiar to me.
As I was nearing the end of the line of shops, I walked into a small corner grocery store and was suddenly hit with the strong smell of fish. I looked to my left and saw fish right there on top of ice staring at me, ready to be sold. I had a flashback to when a few Mission Year teammates and I walked into a Liberian grocery store in Southwest Philadelphia and the stench was so unfamiliar and difficult for me that I had to walk out within minutes.
In this small grocery store in Chinatown for some reason the smell and sight of fish, though still unfamiliar, didn't bother me as it had before. In fact, I found myself tearing up at the smell of fish in this corner grocery store. As I strolled around the store, looking at dried prunes and Pocky sticks, I was able to put words to my wave of emotion. In that moment, I realized that even though it wasn't home to me, to someone, the smell and sight of fish is home. And that realization made all the difference.
Whether it's stroganoff or kalua pig, collard greens or curry, home is home. Whether it's hip hop or country, reggae or tabla music, home is home. Whether its contra dancing or ballet, line dancing or the hula, home is home. One way of doing home is not better than another way of doing home. Home is home, and home is to be celebrated.
May we be a people that celebrate each other.
May we be a people that celebrate each others' manifestations of home.
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