By Taina Teravainen, Staff Writer, Emerson College
I used to have the easiest time answering the common question, “where is home for you?” Most people, who ask out of courtesy rather than curiosity, would be happy with just knowing the location – Singapore – but those who probe for details force me to start being creative with my responses. If I had a captive audience to whom I could wax lyrical about The Lion City, here’s what I’d say.
Home provides me with consistency and little in the way of surprises. The sun rises and sets around seven every day of the year. If it’s not sunny, there's torrential rain. When I was there, I’d always expect to have to an oily sheen on my nose, the humidity encasing me in a sticky cocoon. I would wake up to the birds calling in rising octaves from the tembusu and saga trees and a bell ringing at regular intervals, on weekdays, at the secondary school that I could look into from my third-story window.
Home was knowing which buses would take me anywhere I wanted to be on the 274 square mile island. Home was the city I lived in all my life, hovering right above the equator, teeming with people and high-rise buildings. There was so much glorious food from too many cultures to count, and often I’d get a text from a friend at one or two in the morning asking if I want to go out for mee pok or roti prata? We spoke in English, yes, but also Mandarin Chinese and a Hokkien dialect, sometimes throwing in a couple of words of Malay where needed.
I didn’t realize how much I would miss this ease of knowing a place like I knew the color of my own irises. I could move through my city and see myself reflected in its people, and its places, and its sounds. This is how I became the person I am today, this is how I learned what was important to me, this is how I figured out what I didn’t want to be like anymore, this is what I loved, and these were the limits I wanted to test.
Though my affinity for my hometown grew significantly when I finally left for college at 19, being on the outside looking in gave me perspective to begin articulating why exactly I needed to get out. It had shaped me, and I owe it that, despite the many problems I had with it. It frustrated me seeing the city I loved as a place so flawed. It will always be home, in that I will always want to go back, but I’m no longer sure if I can stay. I've always thought, "I’m malleable, I have room to change and find new homes," which is exactly what brought me to Boston.
When I look up at the little cutout bit of sky between the buildings on the corner of Tremont and Boylston as I wait for the traffic lights to change, sometimes I get the brief sensation that I've been doing it all my life. But Boston isn’t my city. My first kiss was not in any of these cafes, I don’t have loyalty to any of the corner stores, the uneven brick sidewalks still trip me up from time to time. I check the temperature daily in Celsius, and struggle with heaters, waking up several times a night, either shivering or feeling like I’m swimming in stifling liquid heat. Winter is a strange shock that my body is still getting acclimated to, since it was born into tropical humidity. I’ve stopped sighing at my food. Nothing is spicy enough, there’s cheese in everything, and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will not be able to buy booze at 7 eleven.
Perhaps it’s something to do with living in the dorms. I tried to convince my parents that living in a not-so-nice apartment would allow me to “live like a real person”, whatever that means. I could picture them rolling their eyes and making comments about me wanting to play house, but I felt a need for something more permanent, something of my own….the need to create a new home. I want to carve out my own little space in Boston, grumble about the B line on the T, and know where to get the best pho in the neighborhood. I’m going to be living on campus for a third year, and somehow I feel like I’ve let Boston down. I know she has so much to offer, but I’ve not found any of it yet.
Home now is a good concert, where I can just breathe and sing and flail around for a couple of hours and not over-think. Home is having friends a door away, who will hold me during nights that go on too long, and who make me laugh with the simplest of looks. I read a poem once that warned me never to build homes in human beings, but right now they’re my constant.
I guess I’m still looking.
Taina Teravainen is a 21-year-old girlchild who loves tattoos and milk tea. She hails from the little island city of Singapore and writes a lot about boys, feelings, and the search for home.
I used to have the easiest time answering the common question, “where is home for you?” Most people, who ask out of courtesy rather than curiosity, would be happy with just knowing the location – Singapore – but those who probe for details force me to start being creative with my responses. If I had a captive audience to whom I could wax lyrical about The Lion City, here’s what I’d say.
Home provides me with consistency and little in the way of surprises. The sun rises and sets around seven every day of the year. If it’s not sunny, there's torrential rain. When I was there, I’d always expect to have to an oily sheen on my nose, the humidity encasing me in a sticky cocoon. I would wake up to the birds calling in rising octaves from the tembusu and saga trees and a bell ringing at regular intervals, on weekdays, at the secondary school that I could look into from my third-story window.
Home was knowing which buses would take me anywhere I wanted to be on the 274 square mile island. Home was the city I lived in all my life, hovering right above the equator, teeming with people and high-rise buildings. There was so much glorious food from too many cultures to count, and often I’d get a text from a friend at one or two in the morning asking if I want to go out for mee pok or roti prata? We spoke in English, yes, but also Mandarin Chinese and a Hokkien dialect, sometimes throwing in a couple of words of Malay where needed.
I didn’t realize how much I would miss this ease of knowing a place like I knew the color of my own irises. I could move through my city and see myself reflected in its people, and its places, and its sounds. This is how I became the person I am today, this is how I learned what was important to me, this is how I figured out what I didn’t want to be like anymore, this is what I loved, and these were the limits I wanted to test.
Though my affinity for my hometown grew significantly when I finally left for college at 19, being on the outside looking in gave me perspective to begin articulating why exactly I needed to get out. It had shaped me, and I owe it that, despite the many problems I had with it. It frustrated me seeing the city I loved as a place so flawed. It will always be home, in that I will always want to go back, but I’m no longer sure if I can stay. I've always thought, "I’m malleable, I have room to change and find new homes," which is exactly what brought me to Boston.
When I look up at the little cutout bit of sky between the buildings on the corner of Tremont and Boylston as I wait for the traffic lights to change, sometimes I get the brief sensation that I've been doing it all my life. But Boston isn’t my city. My first kiss was not in any of these cafes, I don’t have loyalty to any of the corner stores, the uneven brick sidewalks still trip me up from time to time. I check the temperature daily in Celsius, and struggle with heaters, waking up several times a night, either shivering or feeling like I’m swimming in stifling liquid heat. Winter is a strange shock that my body is still getting acclimated to, since it was born into tropical humidity. I’ve stopped sighing at my food. Nothing is spicy enough, there’s cheese in everything, and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will not be able to buy booze at 7 eleven.
Perhaps it’s something to do with living in the dorms. I tried to convince my parents that living in a not-so-nice apartment would allow me to “live like a real person”, whatever that means. I could picture them rolling their eyes and making comments about me wanting to play house, but I felt a need for something more permanent, something of my own….the need to create a new home. I want to carve out my own little space in Boston, grumble about the B line on the T, and know where to get the best pho in the neighborhood. I’m going to be living on campus for a third year, and somehow I feel like I’ve let Boston down. I know she has so much to offer, but I’ve not found any of it yet.
Home now is a good concert, where I can just breathe and sing and flail around for a couple of hours and not over-think. Home is having friends a door away, who will hold me during nights that go on too long, and who make me laugh with the simplest of looks. I read a poem once that warned me never to build homes in human beings, but right now they’re my constant.
I guess I’m still looking.
Taina Teravainen is a 21-year-old girlchild who loves tattoos and milk tea. She hails from the little island city of Singapore and writes a lot about boys, feelings, and the search for home.