The Roots We Carry
You. You are my roots. You, this multi-talented, multicolored maze of people and networks, reaching out from this place I am in, from the very heart of my family — those who birthed and raised me — into a beautiful matrix of cross-cutting connections that spans years and miles of time and space. You are my roots and from you, I grow. Through you, I am who I’ve become.
A wise friend once told me that while I may not feel I have a “home” in one place, that I sometimes become a home for others. I was deeply moved by his sentiment though I didn’t fully understand what he meant. On my birthday this year, I gathered my people from across many places and times of my life. It was an experiment that became a magical moment. As I stared into the tiny boxes on the screen — beautiful faces sharing deep and funny reflections, hearing old laughs and memories — I could feel the love, warmth, and depth of my own history. And for the first time, I began to understand…
Those who don’t have a home rooted in one place tend to carry our home with us.
When we park ourselves in a place, a life, a particular time — we set it down and build a home — not just for ourselves, but for others as well. Like camping, wherever you stop, you pitch a tent, set up shop for the night, and create a cozy, little abode: a respite from the cold. But it’s not just for you; not if you let others in. As I’ve stopped in all these different places, from Singapore and New York to Spain and Scotland; from Connecticut and California to Cambridge, India, and Paraguay — I’ve built and rebuilt homes, inviting people in along the way. And here they were, all in one place. Looking into the myriad faces was like peering into different windows of my life: the shared experiences, feelings, and memories sprawling and spiraling like portals full of joy, happiness, laughter, absurd, tragic, and complex.
The past, present, and future all at once. My high school self in my friend’s basement every day after school. The freshman year hallway full of awkwardness and antics. The bars and late night hot dogs in New York City. Cocktails and debriefs after teaching. Wine and music in my tiny house in Paraguay, with my mom and my best friend. Leaving the Singapore tropics in search of my first snow, only to find it skipped over Connecticut that year. The graduate school libraries, squirreled away in cubicles, working, snacking, and procrastinating at all hours of day and night. Singing at the weddings of dear friends, guitar by a rooftop pool at midnight, beers and bonfires, harmonies in hallways, elevators, and stairwells. Open mics in divey pubs, instant friendships, and countless rounds. A daytime whiskey tasting turned to lifelong friendship. A new generation of babies. Professors and mentors passing on their wisdom. Friends from half a life ago and new ones I’ve just met. People who actually got to meet my brother — who knew me before death graced my life — before I was shattered and slowly rebuilt over time.
My past lives don’t just exist in my imagination, like I’ve often thought. They haven’t dissolved or crumbled like my actual homes — those tall, beautiful buildings razed to the ground to make space for the new. My past is out there, floating in the memories of the people I knew and loved — of those who loved me.
Though I may have felt alone at times, I never really was. I shared my life with people — we laughed and sang, we had deep chats and watched dumb movies, we wrote notebooks, IMs, and letters to each other. We shared our lives for weeks, months, sometimes years. They hold memories of me just as I have memories of them. I could see versions of my younger selves reflected in them: the perceptions of each other that we’ve guarded over time — a record of who we once were.
I may not have people who have known me over the course of my whole life, but there are people out there who knew me then, who can know me now: they can know me again.
These are my roots. They are not traditional. Perhaps they are more like flecks of dust floating around in the wind. But they exist.
Roots do not always go into the ground. They don’t hold you to one place, nor keep you captive. Roots can spread out. They can live and grow in other humans, constantly moving and evolving, or perhaps lying dormant for years. Roots transcend time. They do not disconnect from you. They can’t always be seen, but if you look long enough, hard enough, and shine a light brightly enough, you’ll find them. They may be unwieldy, overgrown, or shrouded in darkness but they’re there. Just because you’re not tethered to a place doesn’t mean you aren’t grounded. My people are my roots. From you, I grow. Through you, I become who I am.