另外一個家 | Another Home

2021 年3月13日，我們從住了兩年半的聖利安卓搬到了往南約半小時車程的佛利蒙（據說也有華人管叫這裡「福臨門」，非常喜氣）。仔細想想，假如我三四歲搬到台中算是第一次搬家的話，過去二十五年我至少搬了十二次家了。小小年紀就一個人出外闖蕩的缺點就是十幾年過後，我已經說不清哪裡是我的「家」。我住過很多地方，但是除了精誠三街的那間小公寓，我似乎還沒有真正把其他地方當成我的家，無論是我到現在還無比依戀的埃文斯頓，還是一口氣住了將近五年的史丹佛。在美國，我大約就像是陳之藩先生在《失根的蘭花》裡所說的：「人生如絮，飄零在此萬紫千紅的春天。」（少女時期喜歡陳之藩先生的散文，是因為他的文章氣象崢嶸、思想豐沛，而且兼擅科學與文學，頗有文藝復興人的丰采。離鄉背井多年以後再讀他的散文，才慢慢體會到了箇中滋味。）

「家」在我心中有特別的意義，所以我用詞遣句總是格外小心。每年回台灣，我稱之為「回家」；在美國，我說的是「回宿舍」、「回公寓」，我也因此養成了一個習慣：買東西時，我會先想想以後若是搬家會不會麻煩，如果會，我便不買了。但是十幾年下來，我對「家」的感覺也起了微妙的改變。就像我在《外省人・客家人・閩南人》中提到的，台灣的社會過去幾年經歷了許多變化，帶給我的血脈和身份認同巨大的壓力。除此之外，許多伴著我成長、我一度認為是台灣社會磐石的價值，諸如氣節、誠信、原則、廉恥、明辨是非，也一點一滴地流失。正因如此，我每年回台灣時越來越不喜歡出門，因為家門之外的故鄉越來越陌生。相反地，雖然我在美國總覺得自己是個外人，但是我在這裡碰到了許多影響我至深的人，也留下了許多我萬分珍視的回憶。結了婚以後，「家」的界線越來越模糊了，有時候一不注意，聖利安卓那間我們都知道不會久留的小公寓也會被我說成「回家」。到了這個年紀、漂泊了這麼多年，對「家」的定義不再那麼嚴格，大概就只像蘇東坡說的「此心安處是吾鄉」——爸爸和曉彤在的地方是家，我們在佛利蒙一起構築未來的地方是另外一個家。

2009年剛來美國時，我從來沒想過我會在佛利蒙安頓下來。一來當年我壓根兒沒聽過佛利蒙這個地方，二來我當時心心念念的要學成歸國、回饋鄉里。十二年的斗轉星移能帶給一個人很大的變化：我的職涯目標改變了、我碰到了我想要攜手一生的人、我也沒有了十七歲時那種一人一劍闖天涯的銳氣與瀟灑。想當年，我拎著兩個皮箱就敢自己到人生地不熟華人又少的西北大學唸書，四年下來混得風生水起，畢業後又灑脫地把自己在芝加哥的基業連根拔起，搬到史丹佛，全部的家當除了原來那兩隻皮箱，就只多了兩個紙箱。研究所畢業之後，我不想離開灣區了。一來因為灣區的確天氣好機會多，二來或許是因為年歲漸長、包袱漸沉，我已經沒有了以前那種說走就走的瀟灑，最重要的是，我很多朋友都在灣區。以前我不管走到哪裡都能建立一個社群，但是開始工作之後，我發現離開了學校的架構，要拓展自己的社交圈越來越不容易，我很難想像搬到一個全新的城市之後，要如何重新建立起一個朋友圈。於是我們留在灣區了。努力工作存錢了兩三年之後，我們很幸運地擁有了自己的家，一個我們一起達成的里程碑、一個我們一起為了我們共同的夢想和未來奮鬥的地方。

當然，喜悅和振奮之餘還是有不少遺憾。當我得知賣方接受了我們的報價時，我腦海中閃過的第一個念頭是：「如果媽媽知道了該多好！」去年九月媽媽住院前，我就跟她提過我們想買房子，頭期款也存得差不多了，我還記得當我在視訊裡興奮地向她描述著我們理想中的未來時，她瘦削的臉龐上綻開的微笑。只可惜一個月之後災星照臨，天人永隔，她沒來得及看見我們實踐了夢想第一步的藍圖。這次搬家帶給我相當大的情緒衝擊，因為我大部分的東西要不是她買給我的，就是我們一起買的，或是這次我從台灣帶回來她的遺物。比方說我那條蓋了十二年的棉被，就是我剛到美國的第一天，我們一起搭公車去 Bed, Bath & Beyond 買的。後來研究所時被洗衣機扯破了一個大洞，我捨不得扔，硬是用一件舊衣服做了一塊大補丁補起來，一直蓋到了今天。將近五個月後，我放聲大哭的次數減少了，思念匯聚成一條涓涓細流，細小而雋永。但是這次打包搬家的過程中，我才發現原來這條細流的源頭依然是浩瀚的長江大澤，時不時便會捲起驚濤駭浪，而我只能狼狽地在哀慟決堤時，在洶湧的怒濤中載浮載沉，等到浪頭過後，才濕淋淋地爬上岸喘一口氣，邊喘邊倔強地想著：「只有我過得越來越好，媽媽才能放心。」

親愛的媽媽，我們在這裡有了另外一個家，一個我們可以安身立命、一起打造未來的地方。我會繼續努力奮鬥，就像當年的妳一樣。妳放心吧！

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On March 13^th, 2021, we moved from San Leandro to Fremont. If I count moving to Taichung as my first move, I have moved at least 12 times in the past 25 years. After spending over a decade overseas and moving around so much, I have a hard time telling where my “home” is at. I have lived in many places in my life, but other than our apartment on Jingcheng 3^rd Street, I haven’t really made anywhere my “home” yet – not even Evanston, where I still feel strongly attached to, nor Stanford, where I lived for almost five years (probably the longest stretch). I think what Dr. Zhifan Chen said in The Rootless Orchid is a good way to describe how I often feel, “Life is like catkin, withering and falling in this colorful spring.” (When I was a teenage girl, I loved his articles because they are majestic, deep, and thoughtful. Furthermore, he is a Renaissance man who is very accomplished in both science and literature. However, it wasn’t until I have wandered abroad for many years did I truly start to understand his articles.)

“Home” means something very special to me, so I am always careful with the words I use and what I refer to as “home.” Every year when I go back to Taiwan, I refer to my trip as “going home.” In the US, I have been saying “going back to my dorm” or “going back to my apartment.” I also picked up a habit in the US: whenever I am considering buying something, I think about whether I will bring it with me if I move, and how much trouble will be involved in moving it. If I don’t think I will bring it or if it will be too hard to move, I often end up not buying it. However, how I feel about “home” has been changing slowly and subtly over the past twelve years. Just like what I mentioned in my earlier article, Taiwan has gone through many changes in the past several years, which brought a lot of pressure to my identity as a Mainland descendant. In addition, many important values that I grew up with, that I thought were the foundation of our society, such as character, integrity, principle, sense of honor, being able to tell right from wrong…etc., have been eroding little by little. Therefore, every year when I go back to Taiwan, I step out less and less because the “home” outside of our apartment feels less and less familiar. On the other hand, although I know I will forever be a foreigner in the US, I met many people who made significant impacts on my life. I built many meaningful relationships and beautiful memories that I cherish dearly. After I got married, the boundaries of “home” blurred even further. Occasionally, I would even refer to the small apartment in San Leandro as “home,” even though we never even planned to stay there long-term. At this age, perhaps my definition for “home” has really loosened up after so many years abroad – just like what Pliny the Elder said, “Home is where the heart is.” Where my dad and my brother are at is home; our new house at Fremont is another home, where we will build our future and our dreams together.

When I first came to the US in 2009, I never thought I would settle down in Fremont one day – back then I didn’t even know about Fremont, and all I wanted to do was to go back and contribute my knowledge and skills to my country after graduation. Yet many things can change in twelve years: my career goals changed, I met someone who I want to spend the rest of my life with, I also lost the free spirit to go wherever whenever I wanted that I once had when I was seventeen. Back in the days, I had the courage to just pack up two suitcases and go straight to Northwestern, where I knew no one and had no idea what to expect for winter. I had a splendid time in college, and then decided to uproot myself altogether from Chicago and moved to Stanford. In addition to my original two suitcases, I only added two boxes to my belongings after four years. After I graduated from Stanford, I didn’t really feel like leaving the Bay Area. The weather here is nice and there are many job opportunities. Furthermore, as I grow older, my burdens get heavier, so I no longer feel like I can just go anywhere anytime I want like I used to do. Most importantly, many of my friends are in the Bay Area. In the past when I was in school, I would build a community wherever I went. However, after I started to work, I noticed that it gets more and more difficult to expand a quality social circle without the framework that schools provide. It is hard to imagine what it will be like to move to a new city where I know no one and start to build up a new social circle from scratch. So we decided to stay. After working hard and saving hard for about three years, we are fortunate to have our own home – a milestone we accomplished together, a place where we can strive towards our goals and build our lives together.

Of course, there are some regrets behind our joy and excitement. When we found out that the seller accepted our offer, the first thought that flashed through my mind was, “If only Mom knows!” I still remember I told my mom about our plans to buy a house and we were making good progress towards our down payment late last September before her hospitalization. I was describing our dreams and plans for the future with a lot of excitement, and I remember the smile that lit up her thin and pale face during our video chat. Unfortunately, she left a month later and never got to see the first step we took towards the future that we planned out. This time packing was much more emotional than I expected because most of my belongings are either from my mom or things we bought together. There are also many things that I brought back from Taiwan on my last trip that used to belong to her. For example, I have had my comforter for twelve years. It is the very same comforter that my mom and I bought together at Bed, Bath & Beyond on the first day I set my foot in the US. The laundry machine at Stanford ripped a big hole in it, but instead of throwing it away, I managed to make a big patch out of an old shirt to patch it up and keep using it until today. Five months after my mom’s passing, the number of my breakdowns is decreasing – my thoughts for her seem to have condensed into a trickling stream, small but consistent. While I was packing for our move, however, I realized that the source of this stream is still a vast lake with rogue waves from time to time. When grief burst, I would struggle to keep my head above water in the raging waves, trying not to drown in sorrow. After the waves passed, I would climb on to the bank and take a breath, thinking stubbornly to myself, “Mom can only rest in peace if she knows I am living a good, meaningful life. I need to keep working hard to become a better person so that she will have nothing to worry about.” (Note: this metaphor actually sounds much better in Chinese.)

Dear mom, we now have another home here – a place where we can settle and build our future together. I will keep working hard and striving towards our goals, just like what you did when you were my age. Don’t worry. I miss you, and love you.