Sometimes, I wish home was so close, so familiar, that I could enjoy the privilege of taking it for granted. But for me, an international student on scholarship, going home is a luxury. Going home to the love of my family is more expensive than listening to the ocean in Florida, than walking down the quiet streets of California with my best friend, than singing hymns with the liturgical choir in the great cathedrals of France. Home is a precious gem, a price that gleams far away down the road at the end of each long year.
My first fall break at Notre Dame, I stayed in my dorm. And I almost smothered in the silence, the loneliness, the nothingness of those nine days.
So when Shelin Aunty invited me to celebrate Thanksgiving at her house, I said yes. I said yes, knowing that this was not my home, that she was not my mom.
“But at least, you can get away from campus for a little while,” I told myself as I found myself confronting the curves and edges of this new space. “At least you’ll have someone to talk to in your mother tongue!” I told myself, as I dutifully played the role of the polite guest. At the end of the short break, I came away with polite thank yous on my lips.
The summer after my freshman year, Shelin Aunty came to my rescue once again. I was working in South Bend but had nowhere to live. Aunty generously invited me to stay with her for a month.
Each day I spent with her, my footsteps grew more confident on the carpeted floor of the house, and my hands began to reach with assurance for my chair at the dining table. Shelin Aunty made me tomato rice, prawns curry and chickpeas “because your mom told me you like them,” and my thank yous became shining eyes, lips that quivered into a smile. I found myself offering funny, crazy, vulnerable stories from life at Notre Dame. I found myself singing to her as she listened quietly. I found myself feeling at home in a house that was not mine.
Shelin Aunty’s was the first home that found me.
Then, another time, when home felt so far away, Ambili Aunty came into my life. As I stepped into the warmth of her house, she took my hand and said, “Welcome home!”
I knew that she was nothing more than my mom’s old friend, an almost-stranger, offering help to a girl who was far away from her family. But then we laughed together over Indian memes. But then I discovered the badass Indian feminist in her. But then she made me the best avocado sandwiches I have ever had. And she became someone dear. And then, she taught me to make rice, and then she took my hands in hers and taught me to tie my hair in a ponytail. And then she became a mom to me.
I have been homed and mothered by so many people, and it took such a long time for me to recognize the truth that I am so privileged, so blessed. I did nothing to deserve the love that I continue to receive.
Shelin Aunty is, after all, just an Indian woman living in South Bend, whose only connection to me is that she speaks my language. Cathleen Aunty is just my roommate’s mom. Jibi Kochappan was once merely that uncle who occasionally visited India with American candy for us kids. None of these individuals are restricted by the rules that govern close family ties or the conventions of polite individualistic society to shower me with Christmas gifts, make audio descriptions for movies on the spot, teach me to braid my hair or guide me by the hand as I strive to find roots in a country and place that is not fully mine. I don’t know why they choose to make themselves into homes for me. But they just do, again and again.
Once, when these people were little more than strangers to me, I thanked them with hesitant politeness. Now, I hold them in my heart, and I know that my gratitude is not enough, it will never be enough. It is hard to accept the truth that in this relationship — I am chiefly a recipient. I have very little to give. Even as I know that love such as theirs demands or expects nothing from me, it still feels hard to know that I can never truly repay them.
But perhaps gifts of love such as these are not meant to be given back; perhaps they are meant to be passed forward. So I will cherish my love, my gratitude for my many homes, in my heart until it is time I meet a girl like me, who stands looking on with wistful eyes as her friends go home to their loved ones. When I meet this girl, I hope I will take her by the hand and call her “mole” (daughter). When I meet this girl, I hope I will be brave enough to make myself into a home for her.
Hannah Alice Simon was born and raised in Kerala, India, and moved to the U.S. for college with the dream of thriving in an intellectual environment that celebrates people with disabilities. On campus, you will mostly see her taking the longest routes to classrooms with her loyal cane, Riptide, by her side. She studies psychology and English with minors in musical theatre and theology. You can contact Hannah at hsimon2@nd.edu.
