Where Is Home?

As an expat, I often get asked the same question over and over again.

“Where are you from?”

And usually, I give the simplest answer: I’m from Boston.

This is technically true. I grew up outside of Boston, I went to school even closer to Boston, I lived (more or less) in Boston for the last three years.

But if you ask me where my home is, that’s a much more complicated situation.

You see, while I spent most of my life in Boston, my “home” has changed around me.

First, my parents moved to Charlotte, NC for two years.

In the beginning, it was strange to call Charlotte home. We are definitely not Southerners. My parents never really adjusted to Charlotte life. The culture of churches, football, and oppressive summer heat was strange and unfamiliar to us.

Hillary in our Charlotte backyard.

Eventually, though, Charlotte became a home for me. I only had one friend in Charlotte, so trips home became the ultimate escape—I could read stacks of books, bike through Freedom Park, spend late nights driving around divey bars, and generally relax and enjoy. Charlotte was warmer than Boston. My parents’ house was still a home. We were not Southerners, but I adjusted.

Then, my parents moved again—to San Francisco, CA.

Well, technically they live OUTSIDE of San Francisco, but the Bay Area is the Bay Area—and most importantly, it is not Charlotte. (Or Boston.) My parents were happy. My sister, who had recently moved to Los Angeles, was happy. I was all alone on the East Coast, but I finally managed to visit in November.

And you know what? I was happy, too.

San Francisco is vibrant, exciting, temperate, and beautiful. Our new home is still just that—a home. And all these moves have made me reevaluate what “home” really is.

Home is where my family is. Home is where I can return to. Home is sautéed onions, boxes of old photographs, and Mozart on Sunday mornings.

I’m from Boston, but HOME is a very different place.

And what about the home I live in now? For I live in Istanbul, not San Francisco. I haven’t lived in my parents’ house since 2005. What is my home?

Honestly, I don’t really know. I love my apartment and I love this city, but I am not Turkish, I am not a permanent resident—I am an expat, and no matter how long I live here, I will always be The American.

And I’m okay with that.

As long as there are onions sautéing at a house somewhere, full of laughter and light and the people I love, I will always have a home. Even if I’m on the other side of the world.