2 Immigrants and a Baby
My concept and definition of home is a bit more nebulous than most. I was born in Venezuela, a nation that I never got much of a chance to make a home in. You might have heard the chaotic headlines or whispered rumors from that one coworker who visited in the 90s. You see, Venezuela used to be a destination. It used to be a hot vacation spot known for its gorgeous beaches and women, and even a popular place to immigrate to for better opportunities. Now, it’s known for violence, hyperinflation, and a mass exodus from the country’s own citizens. It used to be a place to be proud of. Now, the actions of a violent few have corroded the shiny patina of Venezuela in the eyes of foreigners.
For the past 25 years, the beautiful land that brought me to life has been pillaged and plundered by a revolving door of murderous leeches. They come in walking on the backs of generations of Venezuelans toward their gilded podiums. They sit down, get fat off the land, and leave the nation a bit more crippled each time. They left my country tattered and decaying, a dying weed stuck to the northern coast of South America.
We left for the US with little more than suitcases of clothes just before things took an even sharper downturn. It took nearly ten years until we were finally able to secure permanent residency. Throughout that time, I felt like I was truly a person with no home. We took a couple of careful trips back to Venezuela to visit family where possible, but it was clear that the nation was falling into disrepair. It was plain as day that things weren’t safe for our family there so the last time I ever visited was in 2006, 18 years ago. With the way things have progressed, I think that might be the last time I’ll ever see it with my own eyes.
I thought everything would change when we became permanent residents. Now we had a legal document asserting that we could call the United States our home. But could we really? We’re an immigrant family that wasn’t exactly rolling in money. My parents worked hard to provide a roof over our heads and food on the table. It wasn’t ever easy, but they made it work somehow. Truly, the “how” is a mystery to me to this day.
We moved around a lot. The 2008 recession crushed our family, but we spent the next 15 years working hard for a better life. I’ve called a lot of rented apartments, townhouses, and eventually single-family houses my home. My parents sacrificed a lot to allow us to go to top American schools in good areas. Good schools cost a lot to live near. I’ve worked hard to make them proud of their investment in my future.
I’ve been at my current place for a year now. We thought we were going to get to call our last place home for a little longer, but our landlord needed to move back in. Something always happens, so I try not to get too attached to any place. This place feels different, though. It’s still a rental, but I’m making it feel like home. We go thrifting for artwork and bit by bit, we invest in furniture and rugs and all the other things that make a house a home.
Some people talk about going back home. Some people ask me where home is for me. I’ve lived in different countries, states, and cities so at this point, home is wherever I’ve currently got my two feet planted in the ground. I haven’t yet set roots anywhere too permanent, but I’ll get there. Until then, I’ll just shake my fist at the economy and try to pay down these student loans.