Am I Another Homeless Millennial?
And my ongoing journey to find out.
Alright, so this one wouldn’t really fly without a bit of a background. Immigrant from South America, who decided to move away from home, at age 24 — Ground-breaking.
I was lucky enough to save some coins in rent, while attempting med-school in my hometown. Whether or not that was a smart move, it’s still up for discussion.
When I was done with college, right on time! I was at that age when the love for parents and the need for one’s own personal space were equally important. But how to make that transition easier, was something I had to figure out myself. No instructions included.
First job was 300 miles away from my parents, and the rest is history. Independence and rent came together. Since then, I have not lived in the same city for more than 5 years, nor have I gone back home.
I decided to leave my country, hungry for higher and better education, and many questions came to mind. How to make ends meet was in the top 3 for sure.
My driving force was moving to the right place, which had nothing to do with the weather or inflation. I’ll allow the next city to shape the person I’ve always wanted to be, whatever that meant.
I recently read that only 40% of Americans stay in their hometowns for life. From the ones who leave for college, most never call it home again. That is a lot of people!
When it comes to Millennials, they tend to migrate the most — and it makes sense — we are less rooted I should say. Less attachments hold us back. A good friend of mine would say: young folks like new flavors.
I had to change language, wardrobe, food and even holidays. For many others, the process is less dramatic.
Regardless, moving to a new city comes with tons of changes. Whoever said moving away was easy, never tried finding the best Pad Thai in a new town.
There is a funny feeling most people have, when living somewhere different. After years of being in the same place, one reaches a certain point where that sense of ownership starts making room for itself. It fills the blank space when asked: Where is home?
Where one was born, seems to be the best candidate: it’s the place where it all started. Your parents called it home for you. It served as a playground during those years when scientists swear one’s memories and experiences can shape one’s personality.
In my case, Caracas would be that spot. I remember going back years ago, for a friend’s wedding and to show my husband around. I can guarantee, more than one has felt the same way I did back then: I didn’t belong anymore.
The streets didn’t feel the same, my friends and family -or at least those that stayed there — had changed so much. Even the ice cream tasted different. My school had another color. Kids looked 4 generations behind, as opposed to only some years. It was shocking to me that I wasn’t the only one moving on.
Classmates and colleagues had changed as well. I went to some parties and visited some childhood people I had locked in my memories and kept in touch with. Seeing them made me realize that life was also different for them. Their expectations and dreams were new, and so were mine.
I remember going to a small bar I used to visit regularly, for a good dance and margaritas, two of my favorites. They didn’t even have a dance floor anymore, and I think I can make better drinks nowadays.
Home didn’t feel like home anymore.
I had a feeling back then, and quite honestly, I can’t put a name on it but try and describe: It was something similar to what one thinks when visiting parents, or good friends from college — I was a turist.
Another good option would be where Jacob and I met: Jersey. I earned the right to call it home for almost 7 years, split in two different zip codes.
I knew where to kill those midnight munchies, or how to dress for the late April evenings. Best place for Christmas shopping? Easy. But after a job offer swept us away to the other coast, home was about to change, one more time.
And of course, I have my little friend: the accent. I have literally heard everything. From Are you Argentinian? to No way! You are too pale for a Latinx. Couple times even in Portuguese. I’ll give them props for choosing a Romance language.
Hearing many people, essentially on a daily basis, trying to guess the color of my passport, doesn’t really help with the search for home.
The word I’m looking for is identity, easy to name, harder to find. Hardest when parents and friends have all left the country one is originally from, so not even a trip back there would remind me of childhood traditions or holiday meals.
The battle would be even tougher if I were strongly attached to the physical, instead of the vibes or following my gut feeling. If I were a material girl — Madonna would say.
Simply put, I could get rid of everything I own and run away to a better place, as long as it feels right.
Could I be proud of this? I would love to pamper that idea. But I’m sure Miss Dolly, would love to stay with the same scents and fire hydrants to wee-wee on.
I am also convinced my cacti would be happier at a steady climate for more than some months. My apologies you guys, we are all here trying to make it.
We live in the desert now, and couldn’t really ask for more. It feels too soon to call it home, but we are working on it. Learning how to go around GPS-free, where the best candles are, and the fun dog park.
I’m on a mission. Best Ice Lattes in town, the closest Trader Joe’s, or how much to save for electric bills during summer. Hoping one day, sooner rather than later, it all comes together.
For the time being, I’ll join the locals complaining about the heat, while waiting in line.
But Where is home? That is still uncleared. I’m happy where my husband and puppy are. I have proven too many times, for good or bad, that I’m able to squeeze my life into 2 suitcases and change scenery faster than I’d like to admit.
In the meantime, I’m calling home any place with good service to call mom, and perfectly made fish tacos.
