When I was 5 years old we moved across the country.
When I was 8 we moved across the ocean.
When I was 11 we moved to the other side of the country.
I learned to how to adapt to each environment. How to cater to each specific setting.
Each place I’ve lived has become a section. A way to divide up my life so far.
Because with each “home” I search for new things to hold onto. New identities to call my own.
No I’m not cool and exotic.
No I’m not boring and simply American.
I’m not fully white. I’m not fully Indian.
My mom was born in India. That’s her homeland.
But it’s not mine. Even if I felt that it was I would be corrected and scolded for believing so.
My father was born in a small-town on the west coast of the U.S. That’s his home. That’s his identity.
But it’s not mine. Sure I live in the U.S. now, but not in the same way. I am not 100% white. I’m not allowed to think so.
Sure I lived in two other U.S. States but I can barely remember the one I was born in and we only lived in the other one for 3/17 years of my life.
Those are not my identity. I can’t relate to people from there.
I’m not Pacific Islander. We lived there for only three years as well.
I was older and it became such an experience. That has become part of my identity, but I wasn’t born there. It’s not where I’m from. I wasn’t a native.
I’m not white enough to be from where I live now. I’m not welcome enough to think myself “one of them”.
Sure I learn to fit at each place. I learn to be happy with what I have to deal with.
But I’ve never found my niche. Never found a group that I can identify with on a cultural level.
This level of loneliness is so hard because it’s not outright and sad. It’s not easily solved or a pressing issue.
It’s just a life long quite struggle that leaves you depressed and numb at times.