You know I love to know that why people define other people of where their grew up.
I told a majority people that I grow up in Puerto Rico for twelve years but I’m African Carribean because my parents are but also I speak spanish as my first language. Most Americans and Immigrants don’t believe that a certain person like myself exist so they very stereotypical towards me and it is a pain to tell them over and over that I’m not a Jamaican or Haitin.
To tell you the truth …my hometown is basically where I roam around with family and friends but I am my own home.
I spent my childhood in California. I spent my teenage years in Pennsylvania. My college years, I spent going somewhere back and forth, not to mention traveling about the globe. I have no idea where I want to be when I get my teaching certificate, and I could probably go anywhere and call it home. Right now, I just tell people I’m from Pennsylvania to avoid confusion. However, I spend most of the year in California and I don’t really see either as “home.” It’s hard to say: what does a place have to be to qualify as “home”?
I live in a town that’s only three miles. I never really fit in, and always had this crazy, sneaking suspicion that it was like town of Derry from Stephen King’s book IT. There’s just something about it that always sets me off. I lived in California for two years, at first unwillingly. I found that maybe I was supposed be there. I had a great job, I decided that it was time to go to college (where as I was opposed to it for years), I had friends that were entirely on the same wavelength as me and I felt complete.
And then we had to move back to my little town. And after all these years of calling it home, it’s not. Home isn’t where you’re born or where you grew up, it’s where you want to be.
Even if I lost all those friends or didn’t know I could get my old job back, California was home to me more than here.
“Home isn’t where you’re born or where you grew up, it’s where you want to be.”
WORD. Home is truly where your heart lies, and that is not necessarily where your mother happened to birth you.
I used to get a lot of stick from a very patriotic colleague who was a flag-waver for their own country (but, curiously, didn’t want to return there to live). My reply was, “Jesus was born in a stable, but that doesn’t mean He’s a horse.”
Home is where you feel at home. Where you can kick off your shoes, put on your sweats, and feel ready for anything that comes.
My birthhome is in a nation now dying of high-taxed socialism… I’ll never return to live. My youth-education was in a state I’m boycotting due to treasonous politicians. My highschool was in a town now swollen to unrecognisability. This midwinter holiday I’ll head to my folks’ place for a couple of days, but, though I’d like to call it home, it just feels sort of detached.
I guess I’m like a tortoise, my home travels with me.
Whenever you refer to where you live as “home” you successfully relinquished your old area of residing. Even though I’m on break, college is still “home”
How eerily perfect that I should read on my first night at home from my first term at university.
I can happily say that it feels as though I never left. I have slotted back into the place I always occupied in this family; and yet it also feels that I have made myself a new “home” at university.
I guess it’s just a duality that is now inextricably part of my life.
I used to feel this so badly the first few years of uni. For me the place I grew up and where I’ve live now are somehow both home and yet neither is.
It used to really get to me, not feeling ‘home’ anywhere, but I’ve come to realise that it isn’t that important to have one solid place to call home. I think it’s the people that give you that warm sense of belonging; wherever you feel safe and loved, that’s home.
… sorry about that last bit I appear to have swallowed a greetings card; forgive the smultz I blame it on being overly saturated with christmas at the shops today.
I’ve moved so much through my adolescence that I have no real stable idea of “home”. My family is home. Our traditions are home. Other than that, the location doesn’t really matter.
I don’t consider my house to be “home” for the very reason that it refuses to change. I’ve lived in the same place for eleven years, from a whiny five-year-old brat to a slightly sullen sixteen-year-old, but my house is still the same. We still haven’t taken the child-locks off the pantry doors. It has remained static, so that even if it was a place I could have called home eleven years ago, it’s now just the place I go to sleep and eat, about as personal and meaningful to me as any hotel.
It’s not the house that refuses to change, it’s the people. I know what you mean; my mother consistently treated me like I was 12 even though I was in my 30′s. I had to actively resist slipping back into childhood behavioural patterns because the pull of unchangingness was so strong.
I got on my first international flight aged 8 months.
Lived in Pa Pua New Guinea and then Thailand before the age of one, left Thailand some months before my 4th birthday. Lived in Reading, Manchester and Stockport before the age of 5. Left the UK at the age of 7.
Since then I have been living in the UAE (United Arab Emirates) for the past 9 years, only recently moved back to England. I am a Brit, I guess, but I am an overseas student in what could laughably be called my Homeland. A brit who saw snow this January for the first time in 9 years. My parents still live out there, but even though I have only moved here a few months ago, this is more of a home then “back home” is. All my memories of there are bad, there is nothing good in my hometown.
So now I have no real hometown, I am a stranger in my homeland, I get culture shock on a regular basis and find myself absant mindedly listening in when people talk Arabic.
I guess my point is that family is not home. My parents have lived in countless countries, if they move again, there new home will not be my home. Since the age of 13, the only place I have felt at home with is in the arms of my Kitty.
Home is where you feel safe to be vunerable, safe to act as who you are, safe from all the harm that the world hurls at you. For me, the only place like that is with my arms wrapped around Kitty, and her arms wrapped around me.
Nothing can compare to be truelly home after 17 years of wondering aimlessly.
It is so fascinating to know that I’m not the only one who feels like this.
I grew up in a small city. I’m going to college in a college town. I lived with my boyfriend this summer in a metropolis.
When I say, “I’m going home,” where am I going?
I am a college freshman, and this is basically my life now. Do we define ourselves by where we grew up, or where we became who we really are?
You know I love to know that why people define other people of where their grew up.
I told a majority people that I grow up in Puerto Rico for twelve years but I’m African Carribean because my parents are but also I speak spanish as my first language. Most Americans and Immigrants don’t believe that a certain person like myself exist so they very stereotypical towards me and it is a pain to tell them over and over that I’m not a Jamaican or Haitin.
To tell you the truth …my hometown is basically where I roam around with family and friends but I am my own home.
I spent my childhood in California. I spent my teenage years in Pennsylvania. My college years, I spent going somewhere back and forth, not to mention traveling about the globe. I have no idea where I want to be when I get my teaching certificate, and I could probably go anywhere and call it home. Right now, I just tell people I’m from Pennsylvania to avoid confusion. However, I spend most of the year in California and I don’t really see either as “home.” It’s hard to say: what does a place have to be to qualify as “home”?
I live in a town that’s only three miles. I never really fit in, and always had this crazy, sneaking suspicion that it was like town of Derry from Stephen King’s book IT. There’s just something about it that always sets me off. I lived in California for two years, at first unwillingly. I found that maybe I was supposed be there. I had a great job, I decided that it was time to go to college (where as I was opposed to it for years), I had friends that were entirely on the same wavelength as me and I felt complete.
And then we had to move back to my little town. And after all these years of calling it home, it’s not. Home isn’t where you’re born or where you grew up, it’s where you want to be.
Even if I lost all those friends or didn’t know I could get my old job back, California was home to me more than here.
“Home isn’t where you’re born or where you grew up, it’s where you want to be.”
WORD. Home is truly where your heart lies, and that is not necessarily where your mother happened to birth you.
I used to get a lot of stick from a very patriotic colleague who was a flag-waver for their own country (but, curiously, didn’t want to return there to live). My reply was, “Jesus was born in a stable, but that doesn’t mean He’s a horse.”
Home is where you feel at home. Where you can kick off your shoes, put on your sweats, and feel ready for anything that comes.
My birthhome is in a nation now dying of high-taxed socialism… I’ll never return to live. My youth-education was in a state I’m boycotting due to treasonous politicians. My highschool was in a town now swollen to unrecognisability. This midwinter holiday I’ll head to my folks’ place for a couple of days, but, though I’d like to call it home, it just feels sort of detached.
I guess I’m like a tortoise, my home travels with me.
You’re lucky…you’ll never feel out of place.
Whenever you refer to where you live as “home” you successfully relinquished your old area of residing. Even though I’m on break, college is still “home”
How eerily perfect that I should read on my first night at home from my first term at university.
I can happily say that it feels as though I never left. I have slotted back into the place I always occupied in this family; and yet it also feels that I have made myself a new “home” at university.
I guess it’s just a duality that is now inextricably part of my life.
I used to feel this so badly the first few years of uni. For me the place I grew up and where I’ve live now are somehow both home and yet neither is.
It used to really get to me, not feeling ‘home’ anywhere, but I’ve come to realise that it isn’t that important to have one solid place to call home. I think it’s the people that give you that warm sense of belonging; wherever you feel safe and loved, that’s home.
… sorry about that last bit I appear to have swallowed a greetings card; forgive the smultz I blame it on being overly saturated with christmas at the shops today.
My home is a person who I have never touched.
I’ve moved so much through my adolescence that I have no real stable idea of “home”. My family is home. Our traditions are home. Other than that, the location doesn’t really matter.
I don’t consider my house to be “home” for the very reason that it refuses to change. I’ve lived in the same place for eleven years, from a whiny five-year-old brat to a slightly sullen sixteen-year-old, but my house is still the same. We still haven’t taken the child-locks off the pantry doors. It has remained static, so that even if it was a place I could have called home eleven years ago, it’s now just the place I go to sleep and eat, about as personal and meaningful to me as any hotel.
It’s not the house that refuses to change, it’s the people. I know what you mean; my mother consistently treated me like I was 12 even though I was in my 30′s. I had to actively resist slipping back into childhood behavioural patterns because the pull of unchangingness was so strong.
I got on my first international flight aged 8 months.
Lived in Pa Pua New Guinea and then Thailand before the age of one, left Thailand some months before my 4th birthday. Lived in Reading, Manchester and Stockport before the age of 5. Left the UK at the age of 7.
Since then I have been living in the UAE (United Arab Emirates) for the past 9 years, only recently moved back to England. I am a Brit, I guess, but I am an overseas student in what could laughably be called my Homeland. A brit who saw snow this January for the first time in 9 years. My parents still live out there, but even though I have only moved here a few months ago, this is more of a home then “back home” is. All my memories of there are bad, there is nothing good in my hometown.
So now I have no real hometown, I am a stranger in my homeland, I get culture shock on a regular basis and find myself absant mindedly listening in when people talk Arabic.
I guess my point is that family is not home. My parents have lived in countless countries, if they move again, there new home will not be my home. Since the age of 13, the only place I have felt at home with is in the arms of my Kitty.
Home is where you feel safe to be vunerable, safe to act as who you are, safe from all the harm that the world hurls at you. For me, the only place like that is with my arms wrapped around Kitty, and her arms wrapped around me.
Nothing can compare to be truelly home after 17 years of wondering aimlessly.