Defining ‘Home’

Final Draft (see Previous Draft below):

About a decade ago, a teacher asked me, “What would be the first thing you’d include if you were building a city?”

Without hesitation, I said, “An airport.”

I grew up traveling between Beijing and San Francisco and around the world. But amid the hustle and bustle, the smell of stir-fried bok choy in 5pm elevators and turkeys jostling along our morning walks to Name Redacted Park in Name Changed, NY, my mother was the constant. I called both China and America home, but felt most at home in her presence.

But I left my mother, too. Three years ago, I passed through the familiar Beijing airport, but to an unfamiliar place—the Super Awesome School in This Place, NY. Holding an American passport, I arrived as an “international student” and often felt as if I was the Other.

That’s when home became my mother’s voice. Though disturbed by intermittent coughs, that immediately recognizable sound remained tender and serene. And, despite the unease in my questions about her chemotherapy, I found (and find) refuge in her voice— the place of comfort and strength, warmth and familiarity.

Still searching for a sense of belonging beyond those Friday night calls, I began keeping a food blog — 故食 (The Foods of “Home”). In my posts, I described the taste of sweet and sour pork in Hangzhou: ruminating on XiLing Bridge which I walked by. With LingXi, my hidden middle name, I wondered if I found some ancestry in that city. Soon, I discovered another piece of home in New York City’s Chelsea Market too, while licking fresh strawberry gelato and watching the crowds pass by. Through food, I often felt more connected with people and places around the world. Somehow those sensory experiences—the taste, smell, texture, the look of a morsel, and even the surrounding air—triggered certain memories and a burst of rose-tinted nostalgia.

Yet something never felt right. Perhaps those romanticized feelings began to resemble “home” only because I was constantly moving, yearning for home. Maybe it was my eagerness to confirm that home could reside in the mind that made me see it everywhere I went. But could these feelings and thoughts truly constitute a “home”? Intrigued, I sought to find a more concrete connection to the physical place in which I lived.

Last year, I developed a photojournalism project aiming to capture the people and stories of my town, to connect myself and my school community to our town. I interviewed the owner of an organic family restaurant, enjoying stories about his favorite purple cauliflower. I met Kate, the baker of a gourmet breadshop, and learned about her 8-year-old daughter’s love of fig pudding. People with whom I used to share a quick hello, became the touchstones of home. Surprisingly, along the way, I also discovered that some residents didn’t exactly see themselves belonging to our town. A mid-50s steel worker conveyed his struggle understanding our town’s “upscale hipster culture”; Oziel, the adored burrito maker, still finds more solace in his original Latinx community.

I could relate.

While I can trace connections to so many places, literal and figurative, I too have found it difficult to feel connected to a permanent place. So where is my home?

Perhaps art can be my home. Through photographs and paintings, I perceive and connect with the world through color, light, and detail, as I work to reveal my subconscious thoughts and unadulterated self. In dance, focusing my breath with others’, I sync with the ensemble and truly own my physical presence.

Then again, perhaps for me, “airport” really is the best answer. It’s the in-between space, the crossroads of the world, a place full of people longing for home, people coming to and going from home—where I seem to belong. While I continue to seek answers, striving to understand my own and others’ place in this world, you can look for me at both Arrivals and Departures.

What does it take to write an “Ivy League-level” essay? What qualities does this essay show?

– Critical thought
– Self-reflection
– Initiative
– Intellectual vitality / Big curiosity
– Willingness to redraft

Previous Draft:

Each month, I host a hotpot party and invite the Chinese students from my school. Here, the secret is in the details. The fresh broth, which I’ve prepared with sun-dried red peppers, garlic cloves, and the exact amount of chili oil, makes the air zesty, inviting, and slightly pungent. By mixing in the perfect ratio of sesame paste, crushed peanuts, diced scallions, soy bean paste, XO fish sauce, and cilantro, I want to make my friends feel at home.

Details matter in dance too. When I first stepped into my high school’s studio, I felt unable to sync with other dancers. However, as I slowed down and focused on my breath and presence, I also tuned into the rhythm of others and connected with the group. Gradually, rather than separated individuals completing the same moves, we formed a united entity.

And, lately, details have become more essential during my Friday night conversations with my mom. When asking about her chemotherapy, for example, I’ll recount bits of my day that brought me happiness so that, maybe, I’ll provide her some relief. While I can’t make a miracle happen, little things matter here too.

But working as a photojournalist has made me realize that while it’s crucial to be attentive to details, I can’t lose sight of the big picture.

Two years ago, I began to document the gentrification happening in Yandan, a village in the suburbs of Beijing hosting a number of migrant workers. There, I dove into the details: I zoomed into the dark navy uniforms of inspectors banishing a street stand owner who had always been frying her signature meat pie and the tears of a Szechuan construction worker as he mentioned the relocation letters and signs. I sought to expose gentrification for what it was: a destruction of culture and a violation of human rights.

Last summer, however, while interviewing Xu, a fifty-year-old construction worker, I realized the situation was much more complicated than I knew. I noticed that, in my desire to focus on the details, I had failed to check my assumptions, and as a result had been working from a biased perspective and giving a somewhat superficial account.

I redesigned my questions and interviewed more residents. Considering the broader social changes and not simply their personal struggles, I began to see the economic stagnation, rising unemployment, triad crackdowns and many more issues that made gentrification inevitable. I came to understand that details, while at times invaluable, can in some cases serve to confirm my preconceived notions.

Since then, while still trying to sense the microscopic world, I’ve worked to not let particulars dictate the whole. When it comes to curating a mural art exhibition, for instance, I’ve learned to ask myself whether it makes more sense to take the time to reproduce a single print with tiny color inconsistencies or thoroughly communicate with my team to ensure the logistics of our opening ceremony. And when it comes to those hotpot gatherings, does it really matter if a pinch of salt is missing in the broth? What’s most essential is the warmth we receive and offer with our presence.

As an artist and a critical thinker, I’m working to develop both these sides of myself. I’ve learned to evaluate and analyze the driving forces behind the issues I care about. Having said that, another part of me believes that the role of the artist is to engage with the world through a heightened sensibility, by noticing the colors, rhythms, and sensations in our surroundings. The salted dry fish on a bright azure plastic hanger in Yandan, for example, or the tattooed arm of Oziel Moreno, the owner of the most popular burrito shop in town—these details matter. Triggering the reptilian brain, details touch us and imprint in our memories.

The logical mind informs the brain. The artistic soul influences the heart. In me, I find both.