"Home"

I have lived in the United States since I was five years old, so it is natural for me to consider this country my home. But now that I have started gaining more of a consciousness and have kept up with what's happening around me, I've come to realize that I could never call this country my "home." With the time I spent in India this summer, while actively hearing about the ICE and the deportations, I came to realize that the place I love so dearly was never mine to begin with. And sometimes I sit back and think, "What the fuck?" Why does someone else who knows nothing about me get to decide what type of person I am based on the fact that my skin is darker than theirs? And why does the man living on the stolen land claim that we are the illegal ones? My father gave his entire life for the better of my brother and me, and some man that rose from the pits of hell gets to deny it all? 

On the flight back, I hesitated to even whisper the word “home.” Because no matter how long I’ve lived here, America doesn’t feel like mine. My home is sixteen hours away, in the crowded, vibrant streets of Old Delhi.