While I was growing up, I had become acclimated to moving around. I constantly moved in and out of houses, sometimes to a new city while other times to a completely different country. When I was a year old, I had departed from Miami en route to Barranquilla, Colombia where I spent four years with my grandfather. My grandfather would always reassure me with an Arabic proverb “Continuing in the same state is impossible” meaning that all change is always beneficial in spite of its guise. At the time, I was too young and naïve to understand his perspective. But now, after he has passed away, I have begun to truly grasp the meaning behind the words he spoke to me.
By the time my fifth birthday came around, I was on yet another lonely plane soaring through the hazy sky passing through cloud after cloud, waiting apprehensively to see my mother after spending two years apart. I quickly grew fond of my alleged “new home” in Puerto Rico, but like clockwork, in a year I reverted back to my former nomadic lifestyle. This time, I returned to South Florida and embarked on a city hopping debacle; ultimately, I wound up in seven different elementary schools within the span of four years.
Change was not pleasant for a child who was repeatedly uprooted from his home. The most devastating shock sprung up in third grade when I moved across county lines. Since I was constantly moving, I never genuinely had a comfort zone, or place that I could call home.
Relocating ultimately taught me two particularly noteworthy lessons that have stuck with me ever since. I initially realized that a home is neither a physical plane nor a concrete building, but instead a warm sentiment of security you draw from your family. Thus, I swiftly realized that I never forfeited my home; rather, whenever I moved away, my home came with me, as it always will. My home is a conceptual part of myself that I will always take with me wherever I may go.
My latter realization...