People often ask me where I come from –
since different cultures entwine in my face,
since my accent does not sound familiar,
since my olive skin utters otherness,
not quite grasping my emptiness
when they make me feel unaccepted,
just because I don’t always act as expected –
like my sense of humour, which I wear
like a dress a few sizes bigger.
But they don’t know that my home
is not some distant place
where I was born,
a land, or a political concept
that has spat me out years ago.
But home
is where I feel local to –
the veggie market in Walthamstow;
the friends I’ve accumulated over time –
like those magnets on the fridge
people get from their trips; my neighbour
bringing me a handful of cherries
(the warm feeling that gesture carries);
the Sunday lunch at Hornbeam café,
or the chat with other parents while our kids play ballet.
It’s all of that, and so much more –
the feeling of local: that’s where I come from.
Nataliya Deleva 