PDX, Next

Thoughts on moving back to my hometown.

I fly to my hometown of Portland frequently, at least three times a year. The itinerary mirrors the same kinds of activities I had grown up doing—morning dim sum with my parents on the east side, strolling through Sephora in the suburb of Tanasbourne, dropping hot pot fixings into the grocery cart at Uwajimaya, the local Japanese market. Memories of childhood and adolescence come rushing back. We’ll pass the McDonald’s on Cornell Road, where my dad and I got McMuffins in high school after traipsing through two miles of snowy hills. Whenever I see the Buffalo Exchange on West Burnside Road, I think about my middle school years of eating Costco supreme pizza, the paper plate on my lap, as my dad drives my siblings and me to orchestra rehearsal. We always took West Burnside to swerve rush hour traffic clogging the roads to the southeast part of town.

Portland has been soaked into my skin, like the constant rain showers of the Pacific Northwest that leave raindrops clinging everywhere. The city is an amalgamation of fragrant foliage, prim suburban strip malls, and grungy urban living—and it suits me. For some reason, I have always felt the most comfortable here. My head feels clearer, my steps a bit surer. The familiarity of my surroundings keeps me anchored.

And soon, I’m returning. After eight years in Texas and four years in Los Angeles, Maxwell and I are moving back to Portland next year. I’m calling it my sanctuary for this next season of unpredictable life.

When Maxwell and I decided on this, it felt like finally releasing a long-held breath. An exhale of relief and joy. Sometimes, I don’t think it’s even real and I’m duping myself into believing a far-fetched dream. But it’s the truth—I am returning. As an adult, I will live in the city of my childhood.

However, Portland isn’t without its flaws. I’m so used to barging across highway lanes and driving with respectful aggression that the ambling pace of fifty miles per hour on Portland freeways easily irritates me. No one deigns to use an umbrella when it rains. I’m certain that there’s no decent Mexican food, and the racial/ethnic diversity as a whole remains lacking. During a trip back in September, I was walking downtown when a random white man shouted at me, “Go back to your country! You’re not welcome here.” I took refuge in a Capital One Café, more disappointed than upset, and considered the irony that I had been called a foreigner in my own hometown.

Growing up here meant that it also captured my young insecurities in saturated color against the backdrop of a dreary, grayscale forest. It’s the place where I struggled to make friends and fit in—too awkward and shy for the other Asian-Americans in my neighborhood, too quirky for most of my white classmates in high school. I experienced deep loneliness. I wondered if I was good enough for the people around me.

And it was here, in Portland, where I confronted chronic illness for the first time. A large part of my adult life has been dedicated to managing the everyday pain associated with fibromyalgia and endometriosis, but as a child, I lived without diagnoses for years. The uncertainty, fear, and sadness trailed after me wherever I went. Portland was the place that swallowed my question of “What is wrong with me?” without providing answers. After a while, I’d had enough. I escaped to Texas post high school graduation—to humidity, scorching summers, chimichangas, Buc-ee’s gas stations, and new friendships that have endured to this day. I was ready to put all this stifling helplessness behind me.

But then, I wanted to come back. When I graduated college and grew into adulthood—facing hard, confusing things alone like career changes and surgeries—I wished for that familiarity to ground me again. I regretted taking for granted so many things—the haunting pitter-patter of the rain, the smell of cold air that perfumed the house after I came home from romping outside, the waitress at our favorite Cantonese restaurant sneaking us free dim sum. This city had raised me. And as a grown woman still trying to figure out how to leave her mark on the world, maybe the epiphany awaits in the place that molded me. Perhaps I can chase away the unpleasant memories and replace them with softer ones. I can experience what it’s like to walk the line between nostalgia and a new future. I can eat my mother’s radish soup on a random weeknight because her house is only twenty minutes away. I can imagine what it would be like for my future children to retrace my footsteps in the same schools. I can reconcile with my childhood and inhale evergreen air.

Best of all, I no longer have to face homesickness.