"Where's your home?" asked the secondary immigration inspection officer. I paused for a bit as I considered my options and tried to figure out what answer he wanted me to give him. He gave me a peeved look and barked, "C'mon, it's a simple question." It turns out he was just trying to ask me--in a very imprecise way--where the I-20 I had forgotten to bring was. I'm sure the officer couldn't have cared less about whether I made my way back to Madison. But buried in his indifference was this seemingly simple question that once again piqued my insecurities surrounding my incapacity to know the answer. Anyone who knows me relatively well would know that I've struggled with that question for quite some time.

Even now as I ponder my options, I still woefully reach no conclusion. I've lived in Wisconsin for the past 10 years but each time I cross the border I'm immediately reminded of my second-class status and how I should be oh so grateful to the American people for letting my filthy shoes trample their hallowed soil. And though I lived in Toronto for half my life--and even stayed in the exact same home I grew up in this past week--all the people around me are unfailingly quick to refer to me as "from the States." And of course, there's Hong Kong, which feels very familiar... until I consider how the insurmountable language barrier leaves me perpetually feeling isolated.

That I continually pine for each of these places when I'm elsewhere leads me to think that I have multiple homes. While I'm mostly ok with this conclusion, life would be so much easier if the people around me understood this and didn't make me feel like such an alien everywhere I go.