Where Does Home Go When Your Parents Move Away?
Florré
My family moved to New York City in 1997. A Japanese mother, an Austrian father, and two energetic children were hauled on a one-way flight from Vienna to Manhattan, never to move again.
Or so I thought. For over two decades, we made a home of New York. Moving to a quiet suburban town in Westchester, I spent my adolescence in a spacious house. I always felt that the high ceilings and surplus of white space made it feel cold (literally, it’s impossible to heat a house like that). But the guest room was rarely empty, the nights witnessed plenty of impromptu dance parties, and food was abundant. If we’re measuring warmth by levels of music and laughter, our home would be glowing like the inside of a fireplace.
We, much like any other family, experienced a lot of turmoil. Seasons where yelling was nonstop and no family member getting along happened quite frequently. And still, I look back at my time in that house for only its good things.
That house is gone now, at least to us. I had to move out at 24, not out of my own adulting, but because my parents retired and intended to sell it. On their agenda: a year-long boat tour around Florida, followed by many travel adventures before settling down in Oahu, Hawaii.
This didn’t come as a surprise to me. My dad always had three big goals in life: live in Tokyo, live in New York, and finish it all off in Hawaii. He was making his dreams come true—my number one inspiration when it comes to acting (not just believing) like anything is possible. He was never one to let life pass him by idly. No, he lived. And that spirit is just as strong in me as it is in him.
My life led me first to Japan and then to Brooklyn. A rather predictable move for any kid growing up in Westchester. But after five years, I realized the hustle and bustle was too much for my nervous system. I started to yearn for the quiet peace of the suburbs. I guess, in a sense, I felt homesick, so I moved to a town close to where I grew up.
My expectations: a big homecoming.
My realization: home no longer exists for me.
What is home if not for your family and the childhood house with a million memories? There is no quick trip to Mama’s for some coffee, or let’s meet up at our favorite wine bar. I was driving through a neighborhood that felt all too familiar visually, only to realize it somehow lost its magic. It felt hollow, empty, robbed of the feelings of safety it once possessed.
I envy the New York City transplants who have a home to return to. I never left, yet the feelings of security were yanked from underneath me. Now I’m floating mid-air with nowhere to land.
I miss the days my mother and I would browse the MOMA design store in Soho, followed by a hot plate of cheese gratin at Balthazar. I miss my dad’s tennis lessons and long chats about life goals.
Luckily, my sister is not too far, tucked away in Long Island in a house she’s made her own. Visiting her feels like I can sleep for hours, finally able to rest.
My family is multi-cultural; Wondering where “home” is has been a theme my whole life. People see me jetsetting and think I love to travel (which I do), but for the longest time, I was testing out different cities as potential new homes. Months-long living in Paris, in Bali, in Lisbon, Vienna, Tokyo… I was trying to see if I could turn them into something long-term for the future. But in the end, I’d always come back to New York’s comforting embrace and learn it could never be replaced.
Plenty of people lose homes or even loved ones prematurely. I know I’m by no means one of the first to experience this. It’s also not lost on me that out of all the places my parents could have moved to, they chose the beautiful islands of Hawaii. And who doesn’t want to have a base there, right?
But the fact remains that what I’m familiar with is gone. Since the four of us are the only ones in America from our extended families, I don’t have further roots here in the States. Everyone is dispersed—half in Austria, the other half in Japan. I consider it a privilege to hopscotch from place to place and chameleon myself in. But whenever long breaks roll around and people ask me whether I’m going home for the holidays, I don’t know how to answer. I never left home. But my family isn’t here. What, would you say, is home then?
- Bianca
