There’s more to home than where shoes come off and soup simmers. There’s the homeland – the place, the memory, the heritage – and the multiple meanings it has for immigrants.
I decide to ride the deportation train to Mozambique, which runs every Monday. Each year, an average of 80,000 Mozambicans are deported [from South Africa].
I tried to connect the kind of homesickness I felt away at camp, for example, to what we’d learned in school about starvation and violence in the Balkans, with its images of old women in their skirts and kerchiefs huddled against backdrops of bombed-out buildings.
My mother is teaching me how to cook rice for the first time, and though she has warned me multiple times (“xiao xin!”) to be mindful of the hot appliance, her words fall short of my distracted, adolescent ears. I hated being Taiwanese.
Privacy lawyer Sachi Jepson looked forward to working at an international law firm in Washington D.C. because of the firm’s…