We Carry Our Homes With Us. Marisella Veiga

never questioned. It’s where my family, and therefore I, had a history. There, I would not fall under suspicion after an introduction or be invited to join something in order to fill a minority quota. In Cuba, people knew both sets of grandparents and maybe even their parents as decent, hardworking, family-oriented people. They had integrity. Most importantly, they were people with faith in God.

      Unfortunately, an uninterrupted trajectory of relationships, generations of relationships with other families from birth to death, is impossible when one is in exile. In addition, the importance of place and one’s relationship to it is corrupted. These are two of my major losses.

      I would have liked to have known a life with continuity. The desire lingers from a natural flow’s severance.

      Many times when I’ve shared these longings, people shake their heads. They wonder if I’ve ignored the demographic changes that have transpired in the United States since World War II. Am I stuck watching reruns of Ozzie and Harriet?

      The migratory pattern in the United States—from rural to urban, small town to big city, south to north, east to far west—is not news to me. Nomadic people and migration existed way before Europeans got on their boats and sailed west.

      In Goodhue County, Minnesota, Fredrick L. Johnson writes about immigration to the United States during modern times. During the 156-year period from 1820 to 1975, at least 47 million immigrants reached America from countries around the world. About 13 million migrants between the years 1820 and 1950 returned to their native countries or moved to other nations. The percentage of returnees varied, with higher rates, for example, from Mediterranean Europe and lower ones for Scandinavia.

      Those who returned to their country of origin were typically urban dwellers who did not own property or land.

      In contrast to immigrants, political exiles lack choice about returning home. The expression of differing political beliefs might land them in jail. Unless they are crazy, why would they return to live in a place where dissidents are often silenced for expressing their views?

      Minnesota is another home to me. If I hear a Minnesota accent in someone’s English, it won’t be long before I inquire about his or her relationship to the state.

      I’ve had the pleasure of meeting three people who, unbeknownst to me, were sociolinguists. Their trained ears were working during chit-chat at an airport or banquet table. After a few minutes, they gingerly revealed conclusions: I’m a Latina from Minnesota. Amazing: I didn’t have to explain a thing.

      To this day, I am drawn to the quiet of the deep forests of northern Minnesota, where our family vacationed in lakeside cabins. I appreciate the freedom of playing and roaming outdoors without adult supervision. It has translated to my adult ability to explore wilderness areas for hours or to travel alone. I am blinded by the light of a cloudless winter day. I loved swimming in the river at Taylors Falls. These places are homes too, for they have provided me with beauty and comfort in various stages of my life.

      In Minnesota, exposure to Norwegians and Germans was part of my formative years; as a result, it was natural to marry a man with both heritages. My husband is Richard Rettig of Seattle, Washington, whose mother, Mildred Januara Hegdahl, was a first-generation Norwegian Lutheran. His father, Roy Edward Rettig, was of German descent. Both of my brothers married midwestern women: Suzanne Barber and Marjorie MacArthur hail from Michigan.

      Perhaps one cannot go home again, though often, in my mind and in my moves and travels, I kept trying.

      It was a foolish practice. Which one would I return to, anyway?

      Like hermit crabs, we exiles carry our homes with us. That is one of the major lessons of exile.

      Blessed are the Chosen, for they shall always yearn for home, everywhere and nowhere in particular, and always find it in the most unusual places.

      —Carlos Eire