Journal 2: January 22, 2020

Dad’s leaving for Germany tomorrow for Grandma’s 85^th birthday. We were all just there a month ago for Christmas and New Year’s. He gets to go again in February and then again in March, both times for work.

That seems a bit too often, but sometimes I get jealous over how many times he gets to go back home. Well, his home. He was born there. So was Mom. My brother and I were not.

Whenever we go to Grandma’s house it feels like home. But here feels like home too. I am German. And I am American. I used to think I always had to choose between them, but now I feel like I’m just both at the same time.

But perhaps I’m more one than the other. I was born here, in America, after all. And English is easier than German for me. And culturally, I probably act more like and value more of the things an American would, rather than a German. It can still be home though, can’t it?

When I’m here, I feel homesick for Germany. When I’m in Germany, I feel homesick for here. At least I used to. Lately, I almost feel more comfortable in Germany without any of the homesickness. All my family lives there. My friends can drive half an hour down the road to see their grandparents— I have to fly across an ocean for eight hours.

 

When I was little, I hated going there. I was an American and didn’t see any point in being a German too. Now, though, I have to admit, I might like to go back someday. Well, not back per se. You can’t go back to a place you’ve never lived in. But perhaps I can make a home there. My own home.