I don’t know how accurate it is that the children of immigrants are themselves well suited to leaving home. But I do know my own experience – I first left home when I was 11 to go to boarding school, and I’ve barely looked back since. My most recent leaving happened at 33, when I moved from London to New York with a multi-year visa, clutching a receipt for the large brown boxes that would arrive some weeks after me.
I have the good fortune to root well in new soil. You’ve heard of the idiomatic fish out of water? I have strong evidence to suggest that I am not that fish – I am the fish that thrives outside the water, perhaps even astride a bicycle. I moved to New York in 2016, with the intention of staying exactly 12 months: to report on an electric election year – and then return home with a chapter (“My Brooklyn Year”) of my eventual memoir tucked away in my mind. Instead, I stayed for almost a decade. Much has changed: silvery streaks have appeared at the crown of my head. My palate has widened dramatically to accommodate the vast cuisines of North America. Sometimes, when I stand up from my desk, I make an involuntary sound. And now, I am back. Coming home, just as my older bones are discovering, is an experiment in friction.
