Home

I wrote this piece in 2017, which might be obvious to you in the reading of it.

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I wasn’t born in the States, but it has been my home and my country since I was 26. I am a citizen, just as my wife, a third generation American, is. Our children were all born in the city where their mother grew up. We live in a wonderfully drafty old clapboard Colonial not 15 minutes from their maternal grandparents, who have taught our kids to love cheeseburgers and the Boston Red Sox. We are Americans.

Since our marriage, we’ve traveled every other year to visit the family I left behind. On alternate years, my mother, brothers, and their families come to us. Nurturing these connections is important to me and it’s important for my children, as well. They think and dress like their classmates, and benefit from the opportunities offered to them by this great country, but we want them to understand and appreciate all of their heritage. This includes landscapes and lifestyles unlike their neighborhood, and people who think and dress differently than their friends and neighbors.

Last summer, we walked the Freedom Trail. Our oldest pushed his grandmother’s wheelchair as he pointed out buildings of historical significance. The following week we took in a game at Fenway, where our kids introduced their cousins to baseball and cotton candy (they loved the game but found the confection far too sweet).

This year is different. Our children are frightened to make the journey. They are afraid, despite their citizenship, they will not be allowed back into their homeland, back into their home. They, like my wife and I, are not unaware of the new and disheartening direction our country has taken. And though we assure them our return will be uneventful, once they’re out of earshot, we wonder if we’ve told them a lie.

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GBE #58, Fiction, Prompt: “Home”