Author Note: Dear Reader. I’d like you to read my essay and get comfortable with my words. I want you to place yourself in the text and feel my words.

Dear Someone,

This is not easy for me, an immigrant turned American, to write. Consider this a one-sided and inconsequential letter of a young, lost girl’s words. What is the true definition of home? Can another environment ever replace home? You’re probably wondering why I wrote this. Here’s why. My country, Iran is what I call home sweet home, or at least used to. I couldn’t see myself referring to America as my home. Home is home, and everything else is not-home. That’s the way the world is constructed. The pain I experienced at a young age took a huge toll on me and the person that I am today.

Do you know how it feels to feel lost within yourself? You’ll get used to waking up every day to the new scene that you swear could never get old. You’ll meet new kids, people who are completely different from the ones who lived in your old neighborhood. Nobody will judge you nor criticize you and the most they’d do is stare but who cares? you’d already be used to it. You’ll be so stuck in your current fairytale, so deep into the illusion, that you’d believe that this is the best decision your parents have made in all your years of living. Then days would go by, the trees would start to shed leaves, the news would talk about the rise in killings, the streets would be emptier and so is the hole in your heart because you realized that the change your parents made meant you had to leave behind the family that mattered most to you and you believe so much that you were progressing and growing because you no longer had to sleep with the fear of waking up to bad news, that your cousin didn’t make it back or your papa was brutally murdered in his home and now you’re scared. You’re all alone when you realized that the whole entire world is crazy and rather separating yourself from the people who could protect you the most, you needed to be there with them. Do you know how it feels? Home is the only illusion that makes sense, not the country that you thought moving to would diminish the fear in your heart.

In our defense, we were never looking for a new home, rather a new beginning. We never had intentions of America being our new home, at least not me. Iran would always be home to me. Wasn’t that the true definition of home? Not where you’re from, but where you are wanted. Home is the only place where your fears and doubts are cast aside but my home is fragmented, and although we all know it’s true, I’ll still lose the argument. Even if the evolutionary path of knowledge and wisdom is presented in my evidence. So I will hold my silence and create my own will to survive. And the divide will occur and I’ll still be the outsider.

Definition of home? Home could be a townhouse or it could be a small fire and the light it cast on a few familiar faces. Definition of home? Be it ever so humble, it is more than just a place. But whatever home is… its a way of organizing space in our minds. The reality is, home is where you make it and You will inevitably return to your original home at the end of such a journey.

The heat of battle, of the pounding sun, was like a cannonball inside my aching skull. dizzy, nauseous. Everything hurt…Was this really happening? Intense pain shot through my forearm. I found myself releasing low moans of pain. There’s no possible way this could be happening. Commotion arose around me and I began to get bombarded with questions from my mom, as usual, she was yelling. I hate it here. I blinked, I’m pretty sure my arm was now ruptured. It happened all so quick. There I was, attempting to ride a skateboard, no clue how to balance myself or anything. None at all. “Be safe on that thing.” my mother repeatedly bellowed at me to the point where it got annoying. There’s no possible way a skateboard could do more than a scratch. I shrugged her off, continuing to fool around on the wooden skateboard. What was supposed to be 30 minutes turned into an hour and I knew because the sun began to set and the sky began to turn crimson. I began to feel down, I couldn’t achieve the trick I was trying so hard to do. After numerous attempts, I finally built of the undying courage and I placed one on my clothed feet on the edge of the skateboard. I twisted my body and pushed my other foot on the other edge of the skateboard, or at least I tried to, because before I knew it, I was flying. I landed harshly on my arm, hearing a snap. I let out an ear-piercing scream and my neighbors’ dog began to bark. My head began to feel dizzy as the pain in my arm increased. Was this really happening? Here I am, laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. It was blue. I was blue. It was a very blue day for me as I clutched my cast that protected my now broken arm.

Scene #2

Click. Click. Click. The rain padded the window. The tv sounded low. I was going crazy and some days I ask myself why do I put myself in these pitiful situations. Just 3 hours ago, I was heading to sleep and here I am in a hospital bed with an eye patch over my eye. Why do I let my infatuations get the best of me? The burning sensation began and I knew I was on the verge of tears. At least It’ll be half the tears than on a regular day. “You’re so clumsy.” “You need to stay away... You’re just too clumsy that you might destroy it.” Do you know that terrifying feeling of knowing that you’re about to fall right before you fall? The short distance between the realization and the fall is just a few seconds so there’s no point in attempting to prevent yourself from falling. The feeling of the fall, for me, isn’t as bad as the horror of the knowledge that I’m about to fall. There’s nothing I can do about it. Too tired of blaming myself, I began to blame the universe. It all made sense. I’m not clumsy. It’s just that the floors hate me, the tables and chairs are bullies. The walls are just in the way.  I used to want to be a Physical Therapist but my mom told me that I would break my neck and that I couldn’t go up a flight of stairs without tripping. Now, here I am, 16 years old and I never learned how to do a backflip. Now I’m 16 years old and I want to be a writer but I’ve got a clumsy tongue and sometimes it trips over air, sometimes. This time, I’ll stick my neck out.