Finding my home

Home is where you are. But when you don’t know where you are, your home is floating. It’s in purgatory, awaiting a cleanse to find its place.

I’m sitting in another coffee shop - another space that doesn’t feel familiar but the barista smiles and remembers me. An oat milk latte touches my lips, warming my mouth, grounding me with something equivalent to memory. My laptop screen stares back at me, waiting. I look at my phone. We are stuck in a love triangle. I yearn for an exchange with someone I know, while my laptop yearns for me to continue. Keep going. Exist inside this space. Write it down.

I look out the window and watch bodies pass. All filled with a knowledge of their destination. It shines out of their body, pointing towards their home. I look for my shine, and stare at my phone again.

It vibrates.

Mum

I answer in haste; something I’ve previously never done before. As a reflex from past interactions, (before the acceptance of my existence) I would find myself pausing, turning my phone over and arguing with myself about whether to answer. But now it’s different. Now I need this. Now we accept each other and I need this.

Her accent fills my ear and I bathe in it. She tells me stories and I listen, occasionally responding so she knows I’m paying attention. It’s all I can pay attention to. Is this home? I still feel like I’m floating. The call ends and my phone returns to the table, staring back at me.

Accents surround me. People look at me as I speak and stare. In a room full of white people, I feel like my “acha” and “teek” and “hai!” are questioned. I speak in my tongue and in mums, both are foreign and offer intrigue.

“Are you Australian?”

Maybe I don’t exist to be placed. No one knows, not even me. I wonder whether it even matters. Floating between two different countries, with two suitcases and a child-like curiosity, I wonder. Does it even matter.

A second call comes in from someone I care about and my yearning returns. They speak in both my tongues and I feel something. A friend texts me and I smile, imagining thier face as they giggle at the meme they found. They are blurry in my mind. I’m not forgetting them, I’m aware of distance.

“I’m excited to see you again”

I am too.

Canada has a different energy to England. People are measured; they consider their movements, slowly and deliberately. England is louder. The air is heavier. It’s full. I’m not sure if it’s home. Maybe I’m over familiar with it; it doesn’t excite me. I understand it. Is that comfort?

An older man sits next to me and glances over. I feel his eyes on me, while my eyes lock on my phone. I look back to my laptop. “We’re too connected to our devices”, I think with guilt. My eyes dart back as my phone lights up and someone tells me which MP has resigned today. I look back at my laptop and run my hands over the keyboard.

Maybe Canada is an escape from the realities of what we have to face: as queer people, as people of colour. Canada doesn’t scare me as much. I never used to run away from tension, maybe it just became too much for me. I think I needed to step away and find my voice again. 

There’s too much happening in England to walk away from.

I think my home is in my actions. I need to return to act.

I think it’s time.