Finding Home Abroad

I aimlessly stared into the two yellow and black containers randomly placed on the floor of my new apartment in Singapore. My sweaty bare feet appreciated the cool tile floor as I surveyed the bins’ contents. I had packed my life into these containers, vessels for items tethered to my past; childhood stuffed animals, miscellaneous trinkets and warm weather clothing were crammed inside. I stared at my possessions, regretting some that I brought and missing others I left at home. Home; home is Piedmont, filled with the laughter of my childhood friends, weekly boba trips and perfect weather. Like a ship caught in unfamiliar currents, my idea of home had been turned upside down with this move. I didn’t want to live in a place half-way across the world and experience a new unfamiliar culture.

My mom yelled, “Lunch time”, bringing me back to reality, as I looked across the spacious, modern apartment that was to be my new home. We walked to a nearby hawker center which was bustling with activity; children laughed and screamed with their siblings, a distinct thick aroma of novel foods wafted through my nostrils and people lined up at food stalls of their choice. I sat down on a fluorescent yellow stool, clearly meant for convenience rather than comfort. It was hard and rigid, but brought a satiating coolness to my skin covered in sweat. The bright red table adjacent to the stool was wiped clean, with a few rogue crumbs next to the napkin container and an antiseptic scent emanating from the surface. Feeling slightly nauseated and overwhelmed, my thoughts began to spiral like a tornado on the horizon. I didn’t know why I had agreed to live in this place which was unfamiliar, excruciatingly hot and so distant from the comforts of home. Interrupting my stream of thoughts, my dad banged a tray of food down onto the table. After scarfing down a few too many steaming pork buns, aromatic chicken rice and other mouth-watering Singaporean delicacies, I sat with my family in awkward silence, pondering how this year was going to progress. My attention was drawn to a group of Asian men, dressed in business suits, strolling through the eatery. My family and I glanced at each other in disbelief, as we sat in the bare minimum of clothing, relentlessly sweating. “Can we go home?”, I begged as the heat overtook me. Home, the word left a weighty tension in the atmosphere.

As I look back on this moment, I realize I didn’t understand the depth of cultures and experiences I was about to encounter. Singaporeans have remarkable traditions, customs and rules that are markedly different from my American experience. Their government, overbearing by American standards, is highly functional. However, no one would dare criticize the government in public or stage a protest, actions which are celebrated in the United States. In addition, because crime was practically nonexistent, I was quickly given the freedom to roam and use taxis solo. I also saw the prioritization of families with multi-generations sharing meals, homes and daytime excursions.

My new home for the year started to fill with exciting trip itineraries, laughter with new friends, delicious foods and a different brand of boba. At the end of twelve months abroad, as I packed up the same yellow and black containers with childhood stuffed animals, miscellaneous trinkets, warm weather clothing and souvenirs from my travels, I realized the depth and value of the year's experiences and my new global perspective. Home, a place that could change in an instant and alter my perspective on everything.