No Place Like Home is an immigration-story spin on the Wizard of Oz.
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Traditional love languages disappoint us, but we are immigrants. Again and again, I witnessed the ways we are adept at starting anew, lives from scratch, snippets cobbled together like a lullaby.
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I learned to love in the language of food, but the consequences of that ran deep.
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Though my mother took such pride in her exceptional Vietnamese cooking, my embarrassment of her smelly dishes originated in elementary school and stayed with me until fourth-year university.
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When I was five, we moved to Ithaca – a town so small that every animal was recognisable: the dog with only three legs, the cat that kept getting lost in the creek, the fearless squirrel that would rap at our window for peanuts.
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Until then, I had only ever understood intersectionality as a theoretical definition, but in a heartbeat, it became personal.
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Of all the times that I had experienced harassment, not once had I said a word in my defense until that moment.
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At five years old, I sat on my father’s backpack in the middle of the airport, sobbing and discombobulated.
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All the times that I had been called pretty had never felt so meaningless.
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