Deb's World

I’m often posed the question of how frequently I “go back home.” I don’t go often. People ask if I miss it, if it’s hard for me, if I feel homesick, if I wish I could go home. I feel like a bad person when I say I don’t. Should I? At first, when I moved to Depok from Jakarta, I was homesick all of the time (well, my new “home” is not really that far from my “real” home).  I knew home, and home was comforting. The new city was scary and new and as a newly eighteen year old kid, I’d never had to budget my money or cook for myself, and now I was suddenly an adult. It seemed childish to curl up and cry for daddy, since I had suddenly been presented with all of the freedom in the world, but that was just what I wanted to do. Every so often, a friend will mention to me that they’re headed back home, because that is what people do when they’ve got breaks from school or simply didn’t move far enough away to validate long absences. But didn’t you just go home last weekend, I’ll...