Finding Home Between Worlds: A Juneteenth Reflection
Growing up, I often felt like I lived between worlds. I was born in Northern California and spent my early years in Vacaville before moving to Vallejo after my parents divorced. Like many mixed-race children, I learned early that identity isn't always as simple as checking a box on a form. I wasn't quite Filipino enough for some people. I wasn't quite white enough for others. And while no one ever handed me a map and told me where I belonged, I spent years trying to figure it out anyway. Looking back now at forty-seven years old, I realize I wasn't really searching for an identity. I was searching for home. Not a place. A people. A community. A place where I didn't have to explain myself. A place where I could simply be. The Gift of Growing Up Different As a child, I sometimes viewed my mixed heritage as a complication. As an adult, I've come to see it as a gift. Living between cultures taught me how to listen before speaking. It taught me how to adapt. It taugh...
