Essay #18
My house has never been my own. I don’t know what it’s like to freely roam every corner of it because strangers have always occupied them. Piles of mail that don’t have my last name on them accumulate on the console table, and foreign voices filter through the thin walls. The stench of weed and cigarette smoke from the basement often permeates the halls and seeps into my second-story bedroom. I’ve lived in six houses since first grade, and renters in each one provided my parents with much-needed income.
After immigrating from China, my parents moved our family from apartment to trailer home to house—as they struggled to save money while keeping newly opened businesses afloat. They bought some land and began running a poultry farm when I was in third grade. When this business became profitable, they started managing two spas, offering massage, acupressure, facials, and other treatments. During the long hours of running their businesses, their burdens crash-landed on me. They had less time to provide me with the basic support most parents offer. Without their guidance, I struggled to handle life’s daily chores, responsibilities, and logistics: cooking, laundry, homework, and rides to school activities. I didn’t lack their love; I lacked their presence.
As their income problems continued, my parents decided that becoming landlords might be the best way to earn extra money. For every house we moved into, they rented out our extra rooms. They raced to see how many people they could fit into our single-family home and how much rent they could collect. At first, this felt normal because I hadn’t seen many other homes, and I wasn’t obligated to interact with the tenants, so I didn’t really care.
Then I began middle school, and normal began to feel like shame. Visiting my friends’ seemingly idyllic homes made me realize how differently I lived. Being in such a chaotic and crowded home, I was embarrassed to have friends over and explain who opened the front door or why there were so many cars parked outside. In addition to the embarrassment and envy I felt, I also resented my parents’ decision to allow so many strangers to inhabit our space.
Eventually, however, my perspective shifted. One day, Wilson, a Nigerian tenant, handed me a fragrant plate of jollof rice and okra soup. Wilson, who walked with a cane due to his painful backward knee, taught me that his identity extended far beyond his disability. Patricia, a tenant from Turkey who was battling cancer, shared her love for SpongeBob and showed me her cool arts-and-crafts projects, including a pom-pom rainbow and a sequin butterfly. Lisa treated me like her own daughter, offering comfort in moments my parents couldn’t. During these times, I realized that community can sprout in the most unusual places. These positive encounters and friendships slowly taught me that people have so many layers to them that aren’t immediately visible, and I began to see my life in a new light.
Without much supervision from my parents, I gained discipline and independence—managing chores, schoolwork, and extracurricular activities. I built resilience by connecting rather than isolating. I began to see people on a deeper level and sometimes didn’t even notice the ailments that many others never looked beyond. Where I had once built walls around me, I learned how to tear them down.
While I’ve lived in many houses, home has been sort of lost to me along the way. However, confronting my shame has taught me that a house is not always defined by its inhabitants or walls—but by the connection among those living within it. Whether I’m with my small family of three, multiple tenants in a house, hundreds of students in a dorm, or on my own after college, I realize now that “home” is a mindset and that welcoming newcomers to it is an adventure.