My first home was on Highland Place. 

It was my grandmother’s home. And I called it home for the first three years of my life. I shared it with my mother, three sisters, and two brothers, all in one bedroom, in one bed, in my grandmother’s basement. 

It was a beautiful home. The exterior was a vivid pinkish-red shade. Three flower pots hung from the railing above. Each a different color; red, violet, and white. In the summer, my auntie sat on the porch. And I don’t ever remember her going down the steps and passing the creaky black gate, though I know she must’ve. I remember her deep voice and reverberating laugh and we all knew Carol was home. And I stood next to her, silently making a flower from a plastic cup with my teeth and smiling at the girl next door. 

The house was three stories, but all I ever saw was the inside of the basement and the brick walls outside. 

Highland Place was alive with music and noisy neighbors. With the roar of motorcycles and teenagers in baggy jeans, my beloved brother being one of them, except all he had was a bicycle and a voice that would not be silenced. 

A year ago, I visited my grandmother’s basement after my aunt Carol’s funeral. Same bed, same dresser, and same box TV. And it still smelled like my grandmother’s home. 

Two months ago, I walked down Highland Place. It was quiet. My grandmother’s black gate was rusted. The exterior paint was faded and peeling. Carol’s chair was lonely aside from cobwebs. And swinging from the railing above were three empty metal flower pot hooks. 

My second home was on Mother Gaston Boulevard and New Lots Avenue.

I shared it with my mother, three sisters, and one brother. It was multiple stories high with several homes on each floor. Each home filled with Black faces and bright smiles. The building had a curfew my brother always broke. And I had a safe person named Ty who was the daycare attendant. I had older kids as friends cuz the ones my age didn’t understand why I didn’t talk or play. I don’t remember their faces or their names. I remember going up the stairs and being surrounded by taller bodies. I remember denim jackets and my mother’s smiling voice talking about “how’s Ty.” I remember my oldest sister and mother fighting and the second youngest sister stepping in between while I, the youngest, stood on the sides and watched silently. 

I called this home for a year and a half.

Left behind was Ty and a big toy plane with doors that opened.

My third home was on Fulton Street. 

I shared it with my mother, three sisters, brother, and “friends” who needed a home.

It was my family’s first real home in America. Only a couple train stops away from my grandmother, it was the first home with all our names on the lease. We owned our own rectangular table that sat six and our own brown two-piece sofa set. Our home was a revolving door. My mother, sister, and I shared a room with two beds. My other two sisters in a separate room and my brother in his own small room that he sometimes shared with a friend. The living room floor and couch available to those in need. We painted the living room walls one morning, a burnt orange with a thick horizontal purple stripe. It was ugly, messy, and ours. In the kitchen my sisters made hair treatments using eggs and mayonnaise, alternating between who sat on the chair and who stood behind. Opening the kitchen window gave us access to the roof where I’d throw snowballs at my brother. And on that roof, he helped me build my first snowman.

Every morning before school my mother made me black tea with milk cuz “you gotta drink something hot first.” And my brother bought me a bacon egg and cheese and mango juice from the bodega. And after school, I’d head straight to my brother’s empty room for a nap. 

On rainy days I’d play with my best friend and upstairs neighbor, Melissa. She had a cool older sister and a dorky younger brother who followed us around. We’d play cards and play fight. She confided in me and I listened silently.

I was a much better listener than talker. I seldom knew what to say, what to think, or what to feel. I wasn’t familiar with feeling; instead, I carried an unknown heaviness that didn’t seem to leave my chest. No one asked and I didn’t care to share, so I just silently listened.

At 10, I celebrated my birthday in an apartment full of people, booming music, and alcohol. I wore a colorful striped halter top and denim skirt. And when I tired of the noise, I drifted upstairs to Melissa. 

Fulton Street was vibrant. Each night I fell asleep to the sound of bachata coming from the bar across the street. And on weekends I went with my mother to meet her friends at the corner bodega where they’d sit on crates outside, gossiping for hours. 

Two months ago, I stood in front of our old apartment on Fulton Street. The front door, which was a faded brown, is now a black metal door with a keypad. The Telefonica next door that hosted Halloween parties is closed and the bar across the street is under “new management”. But the crates outside still remain, only now they are empty.

My fourth and fifth home was on Chestnut Street. 

I shared it with my mother, two sisters, and brother. I met his second family on that block. Met his other “sister” who shared our mother’s name and whom I felt jealous of. Second family is what my family called them. That’s how much time he spent in their home. His other sister was older than me, closer to his age than I was. And I didn’t want to share my brother with another sister. Three was enough, an outsider was not necessary. Slowly, however, I grew accustomed to them.

In the summer, I cried over the death of Cory Monteith, huddled on the couch whilst a party going on outside. And later, I asked for a nose piercing which my mother and brother both said no to. Walking down Chestnut Street I held my brother’s hand positioning myself between him and the police car driving by.

Walking by two months ago, not much has changed on Chestnut Street, except it’s quieter and the rowdy dog that lived in the corner house and bit my brother twice, was no longer there. Neither was Second family. 

My sixth home was on Nichols Avenue.

I shared it with my mother, sister, and brother. We lived on the second floor and the owners on the first. My two oldest nephews dubbed it “stinky house” due to the pungent scent emitting from the landlord’s home. And they’d say it loud and proud, like children often do, the minute they walked through the front door. The adults rushed to hush them, though we all silently agreed. Later, we learned the smell came from a spice typically found in Indian cuisine. 

One morning I walked out the house to catch the J train to school. On the way out, I dropped my brother’s hand-fixed scrap of metal he called a motorcycle. In the middle of trying to quickly and quietly pick it up, he walked out and saw me. He lifted it up and wished me luck on the regents exam. He shouted “love you, ugly” and I said it back, watching him ride away. Later, in the early morning, my mother, sister, and I woke to the sound of knocking. It was the police. 

On the corner of Nichols Avenue, shivering, we spoke words of comfort amongst ourselves waiting for our ride to the hospital. But we knew.

On Nichols Avenue was the last home I shared with my brother. 

On June 19, 2014 he drowned at Coney Island.

My seventh home was on Hemlock Street.

I shared it with my mother, sister, and niece. Three bedrooms and one bath. I had my own room for once though the door never seemed to stay closed. And I began a new high school with a new nose piercing.

My eighth home was on Dauphin Street.

My first home without family, I shared it with five roommates. It was a few blocks from Temple University where I was a sophomore. And I was excited. 

I had my own room and a door that locked. It was quiet when I needed it and loud when I chose. 

The night before my 20th birthday, I experienced my first kiss on the front porch. It was fleeting and awkward. We laughed and tried again. A year later, I celebrated my 21st birthday in my living room with a cake brought to me by her. We sat six feet apart, masks on, and laughed.

My ninth home was on Tasker Street. 

I shared it with my lover the first year and a roommate the second. 

I felt loved on Tasker Street. I loved on Tasker Street. Them, initially. And before I knew it, myself. Nightly, I stood in front of my full-length mirror, water droplets on my skin, and I nourished her. I nourished her with shea butter whipped by my own hands and the gentle caress of my fingertips. With a kiss on the knee from my lips. And mirrored crystallized brown eyes that gazed and admired. 

And after, I lay, eyes closed, on taupe bamboo sheets engulfed by the scent of lavender.

***

As a kid I moved around a bit. Never too far and always in Brooklyn, so when asked where I’m from, I proudly say East New York. But I also say Costa Rica, because it’s where my mother spent the first 36 years of her life before immigrating to America. And a few breaths later, almost as an afterthought, I say Nicaragua because although I do not know him, it's where my father’s roots are.

In January 2024, I moved to Costa Rica, searching for my roots, hoping it would fill the void within with the warmth of home. Hoping that then, I’d be able to hold onto happiness. In the search, I have cried alone in the mountains, alone in the Caribbean sea, and alone on the dancefloor surrounded by strangers. Each time with just my arms, and a voice thousands of miles away, to bring me comfort.

In this search for my roots, I’ve also found family photos of my grandmother and mother in their youth, and of my siblings as children. That, too, brought tears to my eyes.

I discovered a newfound appreciation for reggae, cooking, and ceramics. 

In three months, I have experienced endless firsts. From meeting extended family, to attending my first reggae concert, to my first time cooking arepas. 

In this country, I have been welcomed into other people’s homes, where every inch has been lovingly decorated by their hands. And I tried to see myself in them, through music, incense, and pictures that reminded me of my own home. 

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

Growing up, I didn’t think much about what home meant or felt like. It was just a word, and if you had a bed inside four walls then you had a home. But now I think there is a difference between home and a place to rest at night. I’ve experienced both. 

Prior to moving, I retraced my steps. Starting on Tasker Street, ending on Highland Place, and skipping a few in between. My legs led the way and I absentmindedly followed. It was nostalgic and serene to see where I had been, optimistic about where I was going. 

See, a safe home, subconsciously or consciously, is not only a physical right, but also a spiritual and emotional need.

I imagine home to feel akin to an exhale. The release of pressure, telling me “I am safe.” 

I’ve called many places home. But have only felt some semblance of safety in a few. And that safety has always felt temporary. 

Now, feet not touching the ground, yet carrying me province to province, canton to canton, I search for a safe bed to lay taupe bamboo sheets on. 

And the longer I search, the more I wonder, will I only find the home I crave when I stop, inhale, and release?