I’ve always felt a little out of my place, which may have been due to all the moving in my youth. We left Lithuania when I was three to Brookfield, Illinois and moved into the basement apartment of a home belonging to a Lithuanian family we didn’t know. They were friends of friends of friends. The only similarity stemming from the country we happened to be born in and the desire to leave it. That was a key component of the Lithuanian immigration process as I’ve come to learn from my parents – finding refuge in a stranger’s home while searching for a home of our own. People have opened doors for us, and in return, we opened our doors to others. A sense of community was vital during uncertain times, in unfamiliar lands. 

I learned English quite quickly, through movies and cartoon shows, and I began to assimilate into the American school system. One of my proudest moments was when I had finally memorized the Pledge of Allegiance and was able to participate with the rest of my classmates during the morning announcements. This, I thought, was how I was finally going to fit in and be a part of their community. But home, I figured, when we started packing up my dolls and drawing boards after three short years, was not in the United States.

Our next stop was Winnipeg, Canada. At that time, I couldn’t tell much of a difference between Canada and the United States – both countries spoke English, and both were not Lithuania. Again, I found myself starting over, integrating into a new school system, and trying to make friends. It was easier, in a way, because I now knew the language. At this age, I still didn’t quite comprehend how hard my parents were working to create a better life for us, full of opportunities that they didn’t have access to, growing up during the Soviet Union. I didn’t understand why we were constantly moving. My definition of home came from the children’s books I read, and the TV shows I watched – it seemed constant. There was always a charming little house, in a familiar neighbourhood, with unchanging friends. The only constant thing I had in my life was my family. My father would often say it was us five – my mother, my father, and my two younger brothers – against the world, and often, it felt that way. While the world presented us challenges that I was not aware of (and shielded from at that time), we still had each other.

This concept of home was beginning to feel out of reach, murky and distant, especially when we began packing up to move again in just a year of residing in Winnipeg. Etobicoke, Ontario was our next stop. I was going to be forced to adapt to another environment and learn the ways of operating in an unfamiliar place once again. It was difficult. I began to notice differences in values when I made friends. Although, at this point, I had lived longer in North America than Lithuania, I still felt like somewhat of an outsider. My father reassured us that there was nothing wrong with feeling this way, and there was nothing wrong with keeping our distance, remaining wary. Perhaps this sort of thinking from my parents stemmed from the Soviet era, where they learned to distrust the government from their parents. And although we weren’t living through a hostile political environment, this preference for skepticism was passed down to us.

From an early age, my siblings and I were taught that life was full of challenges. This world was harsh and unforgiving if we did not make something of ourselves. I was endowed, or perhaps burdened, with this grim, trudging determination to find my passion, to fight for what I wanted and to make my parents proud along the way. This ambition has followed me throughout my entire life, and I was – and still am – constantly haunted by the thought of not reaching all my goals. I still have to discern whether this is something that motivates me or paralyzes me. I was used to seeing my father come home from work, covered from head to toe in dust and debris from a construction site, his face masked with exhaustion, that blend of determination and resignation that only an immigrant possesses. I was painfully aware of how hard he was working to support our family of five and I grew up feeling guilty when I wasn’t doing enough. 

This guilt was always there, lurking, everywhere I went and in everything I did. They have a specific term for this: Immigrant’s guilt. It’s this notion that because our parents sacrificed so much and fought to provide us with opportunities they never had, that we must work just as hard to honour them. And I say this is a notion, but it is a reality for many of us. I have never felt forced to honour my parents, rather, it felt like something that was instilled in me. Perhaps it came from the talks my father used to give. Ever since we were little, we were told to go after what we wanted, to try our best in everything we did, and to never give up. These talks became more frequent as we grew older and tried to figure out what we wanted to do in this world. Taking breaks was never enjoyable as little by little, this guilt would creep in. Why am I not studying on my day off when my father could only dream of taking a break? The voices would say. This guilt would follow me on my travels as well – I knew how privileged I was to be able to visit different parts of the world, while my parents had to stay behind, engulfed in obligations and responsibilities that I didn’t have. I’ll distinctly remember telling my parents I was going to Italy for a couple of weeks with my friend, and while they were supportive, my mother mentioned, rather wistfully, that it was her dream destination. Now, I long for the day I can take my mother to Italy. Over the years, I’ve learned to manage the guilt, convincing myself that I’m not responsible for my parent’s happiness (I can, however, add to it) nor am I a channel for their own unrealized dreams. The best I could do is try to make them happy in my own way and through the promises I make.

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The neighbourhood that we moved to in Etobicoke, a twenty-minute drive from downtown Toronto, was full of immigrants. In my school, there were many kids born outside of Canada: Poland, Ukraine, Russia, Syria, Senegal, and Lithuania. Multiculturalism was welcomed although I wondered whether introducing myself as Canadian would be easier to avoid the inevitable questions concerning my background. But that wasn’t how we were raised. We were raised to be proud of our backgrounds, to identify with our backgrounds. I felt as if I’d lose a part of myself if I began feeling too comfortable in my new home. So, although I was making friends, and getting accustomed to Canadian winters, I continued to feel like an outsider. I’d notice that with some of my friends, things came easier for them, and I would get jealous. They seemed so at ease in their surroundings, while I constantly kept my distance.

The fact that we hardly visited Lithuania – it was far too expensive for a family of five – only contributed to my personal confusion. For a while, I had to form an opinion from the few memories I had when I was baby, and the stories my parents would tell. Through this, I regarded Lithuania as a sort of safe space. When I was faced with troubles here in Canada, I thought of escaping to Lithuania, because that was my “real” home, and my troubles wouldn’t follow me there. In fact, in my head, there were no troubles there at all. Sometimes, to make myself feel better, if things weren’t working out, I’d tell myself that these feelings and situations were only temporary and one day I’d return to my “real” home. It would always make me feel better. 

We did end up visiting Lithuania twice in my childhood, once when I was 7 and the other time, I had just turned 16. My memories of those times are foggy, clouded by naivety and complete acceptance of this country as my home. This acceptance came not based on how I felt, but because it was easy, it made sense. I was born there, I spoke the language, and most of my extended family lived there.

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The last time I visited, which was this past summer, something had changed. It was like I had taken the rose-coloured glasses off and saw everything for the first time. Only, nothing had changed. While I continued to grow, my home country seemed to stay stagnant. Compared to my life in Canada, Lithuania seemed to be moving in slow motion. It was not better or worse, it was just different. For so long I was holding onto this connection with Lithuania and basing my identity around being Lithuanian that I didn’t realize I was changing throughout all of this. It was almost as if I was forcing this connection that I secretly knew I had outgrown. No longer was I the child accepting of everything and oblivious to most of her surroundings. I saw the country in a different light, and it was as if the concept of home being in Lithuania vanished overnight. 

Thinking back to the experiences that led me to this moment, the memories, the people, the places, I realized that the concept of home is much more than a cute little house, in a familiar neighbourhood, with unchanging friends. Home is a feeling. A feeling of comfort and belonging. Home is my mother’s meals, my father’s invaluable advice, my brother’s jokes, my dog’s inexplicable joy, my boyfriend’s support, my best friend’s empathy. Home is community, it’s opening your door for others and letting them in, despite reservations, because the need for community will always prevail. The concept of home, as I’ve come to realize, shifts and adapts as life does. And eventually, you learn to grow with it.