How does a place become home? Is it where you sleep at night or where you store your belongings? Is it where there’s friends and family? Is it where you were born or where you have the most memories? In a recent training, we had to agree or disagree that Malawi felt like home. I immediately chose agree but the discussion that followed made me consider the question more deeply.
I have always had a strong connection with my original home in Louisville. It is so beautiful with its rolling hills, fluffy green grass in the summer, firey red and orange trees in the fall, and great parks for sledding in the winter. There are places that always stand out in my mind when I think of Louisville. My parents’ house with the ivy creeping up the white pillars that invite guests into a home filled with my father’s intricate artwork and smells of my mother baking cinnamon-swirl cake. I think of the dance studio where I performed my first pirouette. I think of the El Mundo, where the enchiladas are too good to describe and there is always great company.
In Malawi, some things have become surprisingly comfortable enough to consider it home. As I walk down the dirt road in my village, I feel like I fit in almost as much as I stand out. The shopkeepers know my name and chat with me as I drink a cold Fanta on a hot day. The children wave at me and greet me and sometimes even know my name but I can’t help laughing when I see them riding a fallen palm branch like they are driving a car. And, my house is my own private haven with teal window frames and purple curtains that are constantly blowing in the Chikhwawa breeze. My Malawian house is filled with the beauties and necessities of Malawi and some of my favorite memories of America.
I wouldn’t have thought that I would adapt so quickly to village life but at times I have to remind myself that some of the things I’m doing just aren’t normal at my home in America. I can’t imagine life without buckets now. I use them for bathing, drinking water, washing clothes, washing dishes, storage, transporting things, and gardening. When I helped at Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World), I realized that some girls had never taken a shower; they only knew how to use a bucket to bathe.
Matolas are now commonplace for me. On a recent matola ride to Blantyre, I covered my head with a chitenje (a traditional fabric used for various purposes but mainly seen covering women’s skirts to keep them from getting dirty) to keep the dust from getting in my hair and eyes. A man leaned over and asked we had these in America. “Chitenjes? No, we don’t have these in America.” But that wasn’t what he was asking about. “Matolas? No, we don’t usually ride in the back of trucks in America.” “No,” he said. “Roads like these.” “Yeah, we don’t have many dirt roads like these either.” Does the normalcy of my life here mean that this has become my home?
Home for me is baking with my mother. Home is watching a movie with my Malawian neighbors. It’s going to the Farmer’s Market with Kirby. Laying in hammocks with Jake. Starting a fire with Katie. Eating a hot dog with Sarah. Emailing Eric. Dancing with Natasha. Dancing with Angie. Dancing with Nicole. Dancing with Amber. Dancing with Duncan, Shelly, Mocha, Lady J, and Kara. Home is a day reading by myself and it is philosophizing with my brother. If home is where the heart is, my heart is in two places at once and I think I’m learning that it’s possible to have more than one home.
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