Memories of Change

Uprooting, traveling, and relocating

Some Old memories have a sweet smell and a golden light feel to them. Others seem gray and have rancid scent to them. I have experienced both in the last couple of weeks. I recently remembered a scene from childhood that feels nostalgic and exciting. It also has a hint of pain to it. I am sitting on the front step of our house. I see my parents packing a bunch of bags and boxes in the trunk of our 1977 Datsun B210 sedan. The sun hits on the side panes of the car. I feel a little confused about why we have to move. I am sad because I am leaving my best friend behind. I am also excited because I will see my Papa (grandfather). Then, the memory fades away.

Another one comes to mind, this time is the gray and rancid type. I am in the back of a pick up truck (Guatemala Style). My brothers and I are under a tarp. There is a pile of furniture next to us. My youngest brother is holding our dog. The rain pours down so hard that it hurts when it hits the skin. This time I am a teenager. I am full of anger because we are moving again. I count the different houses I have lived in, and it averages a different house every two years. That doesn’t mean that I moved every two years. It means that I lived in eight different houses in my first 16 years of life. I feel pain. It feels like I have been stripped of something. I don’t know it yet, but the next seven years will be the hardest. I will experience deep psychological wounds and my parent’s marriage will finish falling apart.

We arrive at the new house and it sucks. It is small, humid, and dark, yet recently built. There is no power. There is a notification under the door that says that the utility company will get to our house in two days to connect the power back. We unload the truck. One mattress is soaked, we have no food and gas to cook anything. I finally understand and realize that we are on the edge of poverty. We are educated, we have books, we go to a private school, yet that day we had no food. We turn a candle on. Make our beds with what we have. The house is so small that my parents’ king size mattress takes almost all the living space.

The next memory that comes to mind feels like love and healing. It is connected to the first apartment I lived in with my wife. We looked around for a place to live together a couple months before our wedding. We both were working in the non-for-profit world, making below modest salaries. I remember we found this one apartment, in the fourth floor of a nice looking building. We walked in and we whispered to each other: “there is no way we can afford to live here, but it for sure would be nice.” It was small, but very well designed. Next thing we know, we are moving in. We didn’t have much. At first, we just had an air mattress on the floor. Then a set of very well loved couches came in. We brought in a bed, and little by little the apartment filled in. That memory feels warm.

The last one is not a memory. It is happening in real time. I am packing. Going through an empty house, making sure that every window and door is shut. I am checking that everything is clean and ready to return the house to our landlady. As I walk around, I hear the giggles of our two daughters. I can almost see their shadows running past me. I get a feeling of nostalgia with the scent of a freshly baked badge of chocolate chip cookies. Then, I remember that the place we made our home was never truly ours, and that is painful. “I will miss our house,” says my oldest daughter. And, I say to myself: “it was never ours to begin with.” A few days later, and after packing 27 pieces of luggage, we are on a plane to a country neither of our daughters has ever seen. And, now, I sit down and write.

Security screening leaving Guatemala.

Moving, changing houses is difficult. moving and migrating internationally is even harder. It also reveals a lot about our humanity. Early humans lived a nomadic life. Then we built cities and moved less and less. Today, in a rapidly urbanizing world, many people move for many reasons. I have friends who have moved many times by choice, traveling the world, and exploring new possibilities. I have friends who have lived in the same place for their whole lives, not by choice, by necessity. Their houses are made of corrugated metal. I also have friends who have moved a lot. Not by choice, they have been displaced by war, political and religious persecution, and also due to heart breaking poverty. I can see all of their faces as I write this.

For those of us who move around quite a bit, the temptation is to live superficially. It is understandable. The constant change of environment creates a sense of shallowness. Relationships don’t last as long. And, uncertainty may evolve into anxiety.

One thing I have learned along the way is that if I want to be fully alive, to flourish as a human, I have to live in every place as if I were to live there the rest of my life. My hunch is that If we picture ourselves leaving—whether we envision it with hope, longing, or escapism—we may fall into the temptation of developing a rushed sense of proximity. In other words, premature relational closeness will lead to a false sense of intimacy.

I reflect on this memories, humanity, and changes because my wife and I have uprooted our family from one context to another. It is challenging. I can feel the goodness of family and community who are welcoming us with arms wide open. I can also feel the coldness of the context as I know the implications of our move. For now, I can only hope to slowly build a new community of desire and resistance as we lived through a changing and polarized world.