Transition / Dreamcatcher

I grew up in transition.

The transition between the Guangzhou of fourteen years ago—buying breakfast on the side of the street and walking past organized beggars—and now: 40-story skyscrapers and luxury malls that dominate the downtown skyline.

I grew up between things. My parents raised me in a megalopolis of 16.9 million, even though my dad grew up in a village in Hunan Province, China; my mom, in McGrath, a village in the bush of Alaska. At my school in Guangzhou, the dominant culture was mainstream North American, but with East Asian undertones of filial piety and emphasis on academics. We were all the children of expats, and I soon learned that meant that most of us could not stay in Guangzhou forever. Yet I was still different from my peers. I identify with Alaska more than the U.S., and I am a Baha’i who grew up with agnostics, atheists, and Buddhists. So, in 8th grade Social Studies, when my first assignment was to make something that represents my identity, I began to panic.

I made a dreamcatcher. The wooden embroidery hoop represented my world, on the inner edge of it is China and the United States, and holding all the elements together was the nine-pointed, star-shaped web in the center, representing the fulcrum in my life of change.

After living as an expat my entire conscious life, I’ve recently “returned” to Alaska—the place, on paper, I should be calling home. But in order to do that, I had to find my own original ties to this new place. The month I arrived, I connected with the local Ruhi Institute to continue the work I began in China. As a peer tutor in community building courses, I have many opportunities to share the knowledge I have gained, empowering others to locate our own moral compasses to become pillars of strength amidst the chaos of racial prejudice, drugs, and violence that are so prevalent in our Anchorage community. Through this work, I have found a sense of home in people who are likewise committed to building foundations of peace that will eventually improve relations throughout the world.

I feel like I have been geared for this path from the moment I was taught, as a Baha’i child, to dedicate myself to the “service of the entire human race.” I want to continue it by becoming a diplomat. In fact, I am so eager to get started that I have decided to graduate from high school this December and dedicate the first half of 2019 to continuing community-building work in Alaska. In those seven months, I know I may only engage a handful of people, but I also know that the lessons I learn as a full-time volunteer will spill over into the future chapters of my life.

As I reflect on what home is and the ways I have found it in communities rather than places, I am reminded of my return visit to Guangzhou this summer. Two weeks in, we were forced to evacuate our apartment because of typhoon damage. I sat in my old room, fingering each of the items under my bed. Reminiscing. The thought occurred to me that this could be the last time I see these things and the last time my life resembles, to some degree, what it was last year. I also realized it may be the last time I would see this constantly changing city in this state. So I said my goodbyes. Goodbye, Guangzhou, as you are in 2018, Tianhe district. We are both creatures of change, inhabitants of transition.

I thought to myself, it’s alright, Rachel. Your home is really your nine-pointed web that pulls everything together. The baby blue sparkly yarn that bridges the gap, and smooths out the transition. It’s the only part of me that never changes.