I sit on the edge of the uncomfortable plastic chair, watching strangers around me recognize other strangers, while to me, they are all just…  strangers. Nervousness and first day jitters were definitely not strangers to me, though. A tall, loud girl fills up the table with her other tall, loud friends. She greets me and I’m grateful that I can at least pretend to fit in.

“Are you new to Newton?”

‘Yeah.’

 “Where are you From?” 

‘Michigan. Detroit suburbs.’

“No, like, before that.”  

‘I’ve lived in Las Vegas and New York and Salt Lake City for a while…’

“No, I mean, what’s your, like, ethnicity? Your parents, where are they From?” 

‘Tripoli, in Libya. In North Africa.’

 “You’re From Africa? You don’t look like you’re From Africa.” 

Yeah, and I don’t really feel like it either. 

I have no good answer. I have lived in many, too many places, but which place am I really From? A From is a home for all the memories you’ve ever had in your life . A From is the neighbors who’ve unconditionally been there for you. A From is like the sun-- you don’t ever think about having it, but it has always been there to warm you up. It’s something familiar… something constant… a From is a home.

Am I From the noisy children in an Arab house in Libya, filled with smells of cooking cumin and zaatar? Am I From the tiny Las Vegas apartment, surrounded by sweltering heat and palm trees as tall as the fifth floor and the grown-up scent of cigarettes? Or am I From the cozy townhouse in Michigan, a town as plain and quiet as the soft blankets of snow surrounding it in January?

 I am not From any of these. None of these locations have been there for me through thick and thin my entire life. 

I am From my mama’s sticky-note doodles in my lunch box and rose and jasmine scented bear hugs. I am From my baba’s freshly baked bread and long stories during a late-night road trip. I am From my sister’s glittery purple nail polish and non-stop laughter until our stomachs and throats feel sore and scratchy.

Without my family, a house is empty, cold, and sad. My family is my sun that I need to always warm me up, no matter where I live or  what school I go to. 

Nervous yet excited, my family and I piled up into the car, suitcases crowding us at every side. “Bye, home!” my little sister shrieked and waved out the slowly moving car’s window. 

“You say ‘bye, house’, not ‘bye, home’”, Mama smiles and corrects her.

It isn’t ‘bye, home’ because our home is right here in the car-- our house was the only thing we were leaving behind there.

‘I know. I’m just From my family, I guess.’ 

She laughed, brushing it off as a dumb joke or something, but she didn’t really understand.

 I am not From one country, or city, or house. Some people have always lived in one place, and they consider that to be their home, but not me. Those places were not with me unconditionally. With physical distance, all locations fade into the past like another chapter of a book. 

I am From my family, the ones who have never failed to always be there throughout my entire story.