For many people, the definition of home is where their parents are.

But for me, a place where I can cry without being disturbed is home.

After years of wandering, I’ve been searching for a place where I truly belong. I grew up in a metropolis full of migrants. Whenever someone asks me, “Where is your hometown?” I can’t tell you. I don’t think my parents’ hometown is my hometown. So can’t my hometown be where I was born and raised? Just because it’s a young, rapidly developed city made up of out-of-towners, can’t I say my hometown is here? People always seem to expect me to say something else.

After losing the “Asian” label, what was left for me? “Chinese”, “Southerners” and “Cantonese”? For women, my parents’ home is not my home, nor is the school dorm.  “Chinese local complex” seems to be unique to men. Since ancient times, only men have the right to inherit land. So I created my own space, a room of my own: “Home is where I am.”