Home is Where the Heart Is

When I searched up on Google for the definition of home, I read “the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.”  It’s straightforward--a living space with no surprises, where there is family and a routine. But the word “home” is personal. It has a slightly different meaning than “house” or “shelter.”  To me, home is the source of happiness or what keeps your heart beating. So in that sense, and in my dear friend Tessa’s case, home for us was not easy to find. We were well taught, fed, and dressed, but our hearts longed for a home that was emotionally intimate to us.

Living as middle class students, Tessa and I were provided with everything that we needed since birth. The skills we learned in academics, the friends we made in school, and the activities we participated in were, to some degree, possible because of money. My own efforts to succeed did come into play, but it was my father who raised me in a safe neighborhood, handed me resources, and laid down the groundwork for my independence. 

When my father was at his worst, ill tempered and tired from work, he cut my family apart into ragged pieces. He regretted having daughters. According to him, my sister and I were weak minded and spoiled, unable to push through hard circumstances without our mother’s assistance. However, my mother picked up the pieces of our hearts and mended them. It is for her that I stay for a week at Almaden over the holidays.

Tessa wants to be rich so that her mother can attend Pilates as much as she wants. Tessa’s father stopped paying for it, saying it’s a waste of his money, but it wouldn’t matter then. Tessa will earn more than enough. A physically abusive and quarrelsome man, Tessa had multiple fights with her father everytime she stayed at his place in South Korea. Tessa asked her mother to divorce, but her mother refused. Her mother said, who would take care of your father when I’m gone? After Tessa watched Grandfather threaten to kill her mother because he found her cooking abysmal, Tessa wanted authoritative power. Like a Congress woman. A feminist activist or business CEO. She vowed to pursue these dreams. Her biological father owned a business for traveling abroad. He sent her away, not knowing the extent in which she would change.

Tessa is a third culture kid, someone who has lived in different countries at a young age. She has lived in South Korea, New Zealand, Canada, and moved to the U.S. where she is currently in Fullerton, California. I moved from San Jose to Irvine after starting college. It was in SoCal where we met potentially lifelong friends and partners and realized that the journey home is never easy. But both of us walked out the door, looking for home elsewhere.

At twelve years old, Tessa ate fried schweinshaxe and sliced pig feet from a German homestay mom in Manitoba, Canada. Tessa liked most of her homestay families. Under their care, she enjoyed pasta, oatmeal, eclairs, and escargots. South Korean kids grow up with their mother’s banchan, but Tessa rarely stepped foot inside an Asian supermarket. Her Korean speaking disappeared in the mix of German, Australian, British, and Italian she heard from homestay families.  At age eight, she lived in New Zealand with a homestay family on a farm of fifty acres, which was a winterland in the cold, snowing seasons. Tessa skated on ice ponds and made igloos in P.E. class. At age twelve, Tessa was shoved into lockers by Canadian white girls who didn’t like her Kiwi accent. In middle school at Manitoba, Canada, Tessa learned carpentry, producing wooden chairs and frames, and welding vases and sewing tops. When it snowed heavily, P.E. class taught students cross country skiing. 

One day in fall semester, Tessa’s one friend at school, Rachael, asked her to go camping this Friday. Tessa said yes, already excited to prepare for the fun weekend. Friday came and Tessa arrived with Rachael and Rachael’s family at the campsite. Tessa brought her rifle, just in case. Starting morning to dusk, the two girls hiked trails, swam in a nearby lake, and devoured roasted meats. Night fell. The pair went inside their tents. They each piled on three blankets, three sleeping bags and two bed mattresses. And read fantasy books. The lantern that hung inside and the warmth Tessa felt in contrast to the cold, wavered her vision. Tessa took off her glasses and knocked out around 12 A.M. 

At 1:30 A.M., thunder and rain came down. Tessa slept on. 

At 2:00 A.M, Tessa thought she heard something sniffing and scratching. Near her head, she heard the noise of a drunk man or maybe a raccoon. She looked to her left and WHAM! A hole the size of her wee head was punched in. From there, a wet paw stuck out. 

Rachael screamed at the grizzly bear’s shadow as it stood up and ripped the entire front of their tent. Tessa could see in its entirety that it was irritable and ready to attack. Tessa smashed on her glasses, grabbed the rifle, and fired once.

The grizzly dropped and fell forward. Tessa couldn’t react in time. Her shin stuck under its belly. Tessa fought to stay conscious as nearby campers woke up to Rachael’s screaming. Tessa recalled the stink was like a wet dog, except much, much worse. The tent was mobbed with campers, firefighters, policemen, and somewhere in the crowd were Rachael’s parents. A firefighter took Tessa out and to a hospital where she lay dazed. Rachael sat next to her. Tessa’s last memory of that day was noticing her friend’s lips were blue.

Present day at twenty five years old, Tessa realized her aim was extremely lucky. How did this twelve year old kill it in one go? At the neck? Tessa could not shake off the feeling that it was the  leftover Hershey bar that drew the Grizzly to their tent. Rachael littered and lured in a six hundred pound bear. 

A month later, Tessa’s classmate Richard asked her to go deer hunting. Her bear injury from last month was fully recovered. The shin was fully healed in its cast. With the fracture gone, so did the fear. Why not pick up the rifle and start again? 

The hunting site was bereft of people except Tessa, Richard, and Richard’s father. The group tracked down a doe. Tessa watched the animal prod its way through a tall bush. Tessa took a step forward and was about to take another when a flying bullet shot straight into her left shoulder. Tessa fell flat on her face. 

Nothing hurts, Tessa thought. She’s not hurt. Tessa pulled to her knees. Richard came crashing in.

“Tessa, sit back down! Sit back down!” He was yelling at her. Intense, warm blood poured out of her shoulder. 

“I got it!” A man dressed in camo walked into the scene. He saw Tessa with Richard and his father holding her steady and the man’s smile contorted. The man ran towards them. His party soon followed and started yelling and cursing and calling the ambulance. Richard cried at her side as she was strolled into the vehicle with the familiar sense of resignation and exhaustion she had not felt so long ago. 

~~~

I sat in the passenger seat in Tessa’s car as we waited for friends to arrive in front of a hot pot restaurant. She lives in Fullerton, California and is a pre-nursing student at Cal State Fullerton. She always has this huge plastic cup of coffee from Panera that she gets free refills in. Hands in her lap, looking through the glass at the waitresses and waiters setting up tables, she said, “I am not an open person. I never share about myself with anyone. I don’t like people, and I am very cautious around them. I am very observant, and I can tell with one look, what kind of a person they are.” I looked at her, confused. In group settings, she appeared to be an open and talkative person. I didn’t get it. But she insisted that people made her antsy, and she’d rather be alone. 

So one day when she was giving me a ride home, I asked her. What was her impression of me? Why did she trust me? She said that I reminded her a lot of herself. I didn’t know how to respond, but she added, “You are dewgowoe.” Hot, very warm to talk to. I giggled and slapped her shoulder. Smiling at me, she said, I’m slightly cold hearted. I frowned and told her she definitely wasn’t. Not to me, at least. The day had already turned into night and I was starving. I grabbed her arm. 

“Let’s eat something.”

~~~

My roommate Kaitlyn and her boyfriend Timothy cooked steak in the kitchen. The smell of pan fried meat and chopped onions filled the apartment. Tessa and I prepared our own dinner–instant ramen bowls and a takeout box of chick fried rice from Tessa’s work part time. As we ate, we shared stories about crushes, friends, ex-friends, and parents. Questions about home and identity resurfaced. 

If home resides in a person or a people, how and where do I find them? Are they one day given to me, or do I have to search for them myself? 

In high school, I hung out in a group of Indian friends. I went to one Bali party and watched one Bollywood movie in my life. I was open to their culture, but I also wanted to show them part of myself through K-dramas, Kpop, and food. I felt pushed into the background, because no one wanted to listen.

For two years, Tessa lived with a single South Korean mother and her three sons. Tessa’s younger brother traveled to the U.S. to see her, and also moved in. The mother was terribly mean to her younger brother. Everyday, he was yelled at for his poor grades, but the mother spared Tessa, because the girl was an excellent student. After two years, Tessa moved back to Mary’s place until she graduated high school and her brother returned to South Korea for the military.  Tessa chose the farthest college away from California. She attended Stony Brook University on Long Island as a biomedical-engineer student. On orientation day, she was subsumed by a group of international South Korean students who picked on her and called her foreign. Not Korean enough to stay, Tessa left the group. Sophomore year, Tessa escaped from society in the lab room where she worked as a research assistant. When job fairs were held in New York City, Tessa and her BME colleagues took the two hour commute by train. Then five years passed, living in between the lab and her dorm room. Tessa’s senior class graduation was virtual, and Tessa stood in front of her computer screen, donned in cap and gown.

COVID-19 pandemic struck, and Tessa could not go to church. Her friend Mary shared the Gospel with her, including a few other Christian girls. Tessa was raised without the comfort of religion, but she was open to the idea of Christianity. Her parents rejected religion and were atheists. Her mother's side was Catholic, and her father’s side was Buddhist. But Tessa believed in Christ Jesus, the resurrection of his body, and the Father’s salvation to all who believe in his Son’s name. People were dying left and right from COVID-19, and she realized home, as best as she could try to find one, was ultimately not on Earth. Rev. Chris, a hilarious guest on the famous 5.44 million subscribed channel Korean Englishman, had Saints Savior Church go online when the pandemic reached its peak. She listened to his sermons alongside Youtube stars Joshua Carott, his wife Gabie Kook, and best friend Ollie Kendal. The online service ended and some people stayed behind to chat. Tessa talked with Gabie Kook who spoke fluent Korean, French, English, and Spanish. Gabie was delighted to hear that Tessa also knew French. Gabie settled down in London and Tessa longed for a similar future. 

As people got their vaccinations and cases were decreasing, Harry Chung, a friend of ten years, introduced her to Crosslife Bible Church. At a Crosslife bonfire, I met Tessa at a group bonfire in Newport Beach. She looked South Korean. The unique short, round curves of the eyes and lips gave it away. Together, we celebrated New Year’s in an apartment with Jaime, Jello, and other Crosslife friends. Tessa and Harry dated on and off, but always remained close. In Harry, she saw a leader, a caregiver, and a friend. 

December 14, 2022

11:30 p.m. Tessa cried silently in my bed. Her face was swollen with tears, and she told me to leave the light on. I played calming Lofi music on my laptop. I closed the door and went into the kitchen to cook her dinner-- Japanese curry and rice. My roommate Annette, the youngest in our apartment, helped chop veggies. We were the two worst cooks, but it was an emergency: a girl’s heart broke.

Earlier that night, on Wednesday evening, I paced back and forth in my third floor apartment. Extremely nervous, I get a text that he’s downstairs and I go. It’s the boy that I like, who I delivered soup to for the fever he had two days ago, who I walked around the lake with, studied next to at a cafe, and played hockey with. I was waiting for him to ask me out. I drove in his car to pick up Chick Fil A and boba. 

When he suggested that we walk on the college campus at night, I was ready. He didn’t make a move. Or anything. There was no love in the air, just our foggy breaths and I was becoming impatient. As we walked uphill, I stopped behind him and complained that I was tired. I asked him to carry me on his back, so he did. When he set me down, I wondered if he was going to ask me then. He did not. I wanted to go home. I was so frustrated. So I told him let’s go back. When we neared my apartment, I walked ahead of him up the stairs. I swung around, fuming. I said in English, “You did something wrong. Go home” and in Korean I said it again, “go home.” He looked at me confused, and I saw fear in his little eyes. 

“What? What did I do?” I went up the stairs and he went downstairs, asking me as I went higher up and he went further down, “What? What?” When I reached the third floor, I looked down at him. I thought, I can’t take this anymore. I can’t wait. I’ll just tell him that I like him. 

I ran downstairs and told him that we needed to talk. He asked, “You want to talk inside my car?” We got into his car and his hands rested on the wheel. His eyes stared ahead, nervous no doubt. I sat in the shotgun seat and looked at him hard. I opened my mouth and said it. 

“I really like you.”

Back to the apartment, I collapse on the carpet for a minute, thinking about what just happened ten minutes ago. My phone beeps a text message. Kaitlyn was outside in her car and just saw us together with his arm around me as we walked upstairs. 

My roommates are laughing and screaming into their shirts as I tell them the story in the living room. And then I get a call. It’s Tessa. I was so wrapped up in the moment, that I didn’t see her text message. For the third time, Harry might break up with her. Premarital counseling was harming their relationship. The church increased Harry’s doubts if he was a qualified husband for his girlfriend. When she is at my door, I open it, kiss her red cheek, and take her to my room. She does not get out of my bed for a while. When she does, she looks at me and starts breaking down. I embraced her. I let go and the two of us sat down in the living room hallway and I listened as she started to explain. 

Pastor Matt and his father Dave suggested for Harry to take a step back from engagement, even dating. Three times in the past, Harry called Tessa to break up. He needed to seek a certain level of godliness before they could continue. She tells me that Harry is easily swayed by authoritative figures, especially pastors. He can’t think for himself. When he felt assured about his faith, he would come back to her and leave her again the next month.

Harry and Tessa need therapy in response to family and religious trauma. The church can be overly legalistic, conservative, and judgemental. She wanted to have personal problems be kept private, but the church intervened in their relationship. She lost her trust in the church, but not in Christ. And yet, the future with Harry looked bleak.

 “I know he’s just going to come crawling back to me. But I am so tired.” She looked at my face, and smiled sadly. 

“I think I am in my worst nightmare.” I offered to help her reconcile with Harry, but advised that if he continued to be unreliable, she should be the one to break it off. 

A week before Christmas, I asked Tessa, “What culture do you belong to?” Is it South Korea, her birthplace? Was it New Zealand, the place she fell in love with? Canada, provoking her into survival mode? Or America? 

Tessa said nowhere and everywhere. I understood why she couldn’t give me a straight up answer. Tessa’s culture is listening to every single Taylor Swift song in existence and referencing them to me in the car. Part of her culture is eating tacos at Rubio’s and ice skating with Harry. Her culture is eating ramen with me three in the morning, and buying anything pink. Pink is in her bedroom, on the steering wheel and is the color of her Victoria Secret pajamas. She figure skated professionally, played the flute in a band, and loves to sing ballads. She adores branded clothes, bags and jewelry. 

Her favorite food is Italian pasta. Her love language is physical touch. 

I noticed that while I flit and fro in between social circles, Tessa prefers to stay in a corner until someone approaches first. Tessa is twenty five and I am twenty one. I call her “Unni,” or older sister. I never knew friendship could be so kindly, so endearing. 

Although it is still an ongoing process, I am confident that we are building our homes brick by brick, successfully placing each item in their rightful place. We might need to break it down, expand it, alter it, but it’s there.

And it’s here to stay.