Going home

This past week I was at an intense academic event and by the end I just wanted to go home. And then come back in about a week with a whole bunch of new questions. That being outside of the realm of possibility, I said to myself, I want to go home. But where is my home?

I have a lovely apartment in Bluffton, a place where I have lived longer than any other specific space since Grebel (if an on-campus apartment that was by chance the same for two years counts) or high school. But is this my home? How can I be at home in a culture where I do not fit but where others perceive that I do. Case in point: once I was crossing the border with my Nexus, otherwise known as the I paid money in exchange for the “Hemispheric Security” knowing way too much about me lane, and the US customs official said welcome home. I was, how shall we say, shocked, appalled, emotional and I started crying. Second anecdote: I was evangelizing my students about immigration – sharing with them facts such as immigrants are human, and Romney’s father was born in Mexico – and one of them said, and I paraphrase, “we want immigrants like you.”

In spite of others ascribing a Midwestern fit to my life, I feel more at home in Mexico City, a place where I do not fit. One of the happiest moments of my life in Mexico City was when someone was trying to sell me kosher goods because they thought I would use them. Because I belonged here. I then decided to explain that I had family in the Mennonite colonies, which just confused the woman. So then I bought something and left the store.

Perhaps home is that space where I can move through time and everyone else stays frozen until I can attend to them again.

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2 responses to “Going home

  1. Dear Rebecca; You ask a very good question in, ‘where is home’? It is one that countless people in today’s world struggle with. It has been said that when we are deeply loved, and when we accept that we are deeply loved, then we begin to feel at home. Love, Dad

  2. Pingback: Mexico City | Rebecca J

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