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I Do Not Have a Hometown

August 2007  |  Issue #1  |  Zoe Reyes

My life can be described as a dream vacation: by the age of 12, I had lived in four different countries and traveled to more than 10 others. I have memories of three trips to the Eiffel Tower in France, spring breaks spent walking the Rialto Bridge in Venice, and a particularly memorable almost-mugging by a gypsy while walking in Florence as I stared at the Duomo Firenze. What I describe as my favourite vacation is actually the move my family and I made from Brussels, Belgium to Naples, Italy, which consisted of flamenco dancers in Spain and renting a trailer in the South of France for three weeks.

To me, however, this is no vacation; it is my life. It is a life of constant moving, numerous houses and apartments, and an endless amount of different cultures. I will not deny the excitement and novelty of this lifestyle, but I cannot ignore the consequences of it either. I do not know what it is like to not have to pack up your life into boxes. I do not understand how people function without knowing the national security level. And I cannot find it in me to leave the house without some form of identification and triple-checking my doors to make sure my house is locked. Most of all, I will never know what it is like to have a hometown.

"Where are you from?" is a fairly simple question, requiring less than a fully-structured sentence to respond to it. When it is asked, most will answer quickly and automatically, without a second thought or consideration to what that answer means.
That small, four-word sentence, however, means much more to someone without a hometown. When I have to answer, I say I am from all over; it is easier than struggling to name a city, and less complex than explaining my situation. A vague, "Oh I'm a military kid" is often sufficient to stop the questions, but curious minds will delve deeper into the issue, inquiring the details of my life. Normally, it is a pleasure to talk about my lifestyle and tell my endless tales. However, the problems come through in the topic of identity: who am I, if I have nowhere to belong?

A person's identity is molded around several factors: values, beliefs, family, friends, talents, skills, likes, dislikes, passions; the list is endless. These factors are often influenced by where one grew up: the people one surrounds oneself with, the conservative or liberal nature of one's city, and what is available to one. Someone who has lived all his or her life in Kansas cannot tell you what it is like to go to the beach every weekend, and is therefore less likely to be concerned for the pollution of our oceans as someone who has grown up in Huntington Beach. Likewise, a native to Huntington Beach probably will not know much about farm land and the difficulties that lifestyle faces.
Where does that leave the small population who has never known what it is like to have a town that creates these circumstances? The struggle for an identity has always been a problem for those of us who do not have a place to claim as their own, especially for those who are raised in several countries. How we are seen is nothing like what we are. People see us as either foreigners or natives; neither of which we can claim to be. The natives of the countries we grew up in view us as foreigners, and the Americans in the United States cannot identify us as Americans once they learn we have not lived in the States. We are, in some strange, sad sense, homeless.

With no home, I am forced to try and base an identity on something else, something that will not constantly change on me. By several standards, I do meet the technical, factual criteria of an American: my parents lived in the States most of their lives, my first language is English, and I have lived all my life by the standards of American education and careers/business. Everything I have ever done is by American standards because military families live by them. And despite being born in a foreign country, I was immediately made a US citizen.

My own background, however, contradicts my American standards of upbringing. How is it possible for me to be defined as an "American" when I have no recollection of living in America before I was twelve? For as long as I can remember, I have lived in a land of military men and women, military wives and husbands, out on the economy (a military term for anywhere outside of the military base), mixed with the native people of whatever country in which I lived. I am more at ease around Belgians, French, the English, and Italians than I am around Americans. I was born in Hillingdon, Uxbridge, Middlesex, London in the United Kingdom and lived there for the first 2 years of my life; eventually, I went on to live in Belgium for five years and Italy for three. Am I British? Belgian? Italian? Foreign languages are second nature, and being a foreigner is my nature. Nothing in my life is constant except change and being different.

Even my memories create the contradiction so prominent in my life. At first, they seem to be the typical ones anyone could have, but the circumstances change these memories from normal to extraordinary.

For example, when I was in the fifth grade, all the fifth-grade students were on a field trip. My mother was a chaperone, so naturally I was assigned to be in her group. While walking around, I saw something in the distance that intrigued me. I asked a few friends to go with me, but they were intent on staying with my mom and the group. Letting curiosity get the better of me, I slowly walked my way over to what I had my eye on, wanting to know what it was and see it closer. Before I could get within a distance so that my poor eyesight could identify what it was, I heard my name being hollered by my friends. When I turned, I saw that "you better come back here right now" look on my mom's face and immediately turned and ran back, apologizing and trying to justify my wayward path. Angry with me, she grabbed my hand and told me I was not allowed to walk away from her for the rest of the day. A little annoyed but knowing that I was in the wrong, I grudgingly said okay and never left her side for the rest of the day.

Almost anyone can tell stories of field trips, and many can tell of times when they let their curiosity get the better of them. But mine is different, because my field trip was to Mt. Vesuvius, and the thing in the distance I wanted to see turned out to be a sulfur pit. Not just any sulfur pit, but one that was close to the edge of the path, where the side of the volcano gave way to a medium-sized crater.

The unique circumstances to my memories and having several places in my history are exciting and annoying all in one. I absolutely love everything I have been given and seen, but it creates an endless amount of personal problems. I have had so many different outside influences that I will never actually know who I really am. Change is so ingrained into my life that I do not know how to do much else. While that means a constant influx of the new and exhilarating, it leaves behind a trail of loss and confusion.

I envy anyone who can name a place as their own, anyone who feels as though they are a part to one town, city, suburb, state, or even country. And even though I know I would never trade my life with anyone, the envy and frustration are permanent. I will always wonder what it is like to have a solid hometown and a solid foundation, and I will never stop questioning myself. What worth is an exciting lifestyle if it comes at the price of who and what I am?
Even though I do not have the circumstance of a hometown to define myself, I have learned other ways to find definition, even if only temporary. In a strange way, change has become what has defined me. I now possess the abilities to quickly learn about my surroundings, adapt myself to it, and adjust my life to a new one. In every move I have made, I have quickly been able to acclimate to the new life no matter how different it was from the previous one. Ironically, my lack of definition has created some sort of pseudo-definition for me.

I am slowly learning to accept the circumstance I had growing up, but I still do not think I will ever find a home. The need to have a new environment constantly has been established since I was young, and it has become built into me. No matter how hard it is for me to be different, I know I always will be. And that will never change.
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