The Inherited Gift of Exile

Our current home in Ottawa. And a glimpse of my childhood home next door, to the left.

We moved back to Ottawa somewhat under the radar, at the beginning of the pandemic when people were retreating back into their own homes and lives. When friends and family discovered that we were really here to stay, their surprise was clear. I had been one of the first ones to leave for university followed by over 20 years of international life and work, so by the time I came back most of my peers had moved away. My parents are still in Ottawa, along with my sister and her young family and a core set of close friends in the community. But it wasn’t the obvious choice, especially not the part about an American husband and two children (all of whom had never lived in Canada before). And definitely not the part about buying the old Victorian house next to my childhood home and living right next door to my parents.

It was a lengthy and stressful renovation, which I’m still recovering from if I’m honest. But for me, the process of designing my various apartments and houses through the years - particularly our current home in Ottawa - has been less a process of selecting interior finishes and styles, and more a process of creating my place in the world.

Making a home for ourselves in the world, finding where we fit and how that takes shape, is a universal project. But for some it’s a lifelong occupation, particularly those who find themselves removed from a context where the concept of home and its attendant expectations are clearly defined.

We often hear about the phenomenon of displacement, immigrants and refugees building lives for themselves far from home to change or improve their own futures and those of their children. Forced migration is nothing new, and modern life just seems to shed more photographic and video evidence on the historic struggles that are now governed by formalized borders and administration.

I grew up the child of immigrant parents, those who typically moved abroad for higher studies and professional opportunity. There was relative privilege in their choices, but the reality remained that our concept of home life and our home’s identity was something that they literally created from scratch. No reference points, no generational security and inheritance, no cultural resources except those that could fit in their own minds and hearts - heavy with nostalgia and remembrance and inevitable regret.

Something happens to the children of immigrants, perhaps to many people who find themselves at a crossroads in terms of what came before us and whether or not we choose buy into it wholesale or take some pieces of it and keep moving forward -building on the hopes and sacrifices and challenges of our parents. There is a phenomenon that takes hold to continue pushing ourselves out into the world, to seek more and keep placing ourselves in situations of discomfort, newness, and growth. It seems that mere achievement without these additional pressures simply pales in comparison to what our parents achieved through displacement.

So ensues a self-imposed exile, displacement that is voluntary rather than necessary. To study more, work abroad, become expats and build lives anew…once again. For me, this took the form of not only multiple international moves, but actually opting for a diplomatic career that kept me moving from place to place. Not running, but a journey that seemed necessary to continue seeking out my place in the world. But I had always kept one foot in Ottawa, pivoting on it throughout moves and travels. And it finally pulled me back, pulled us all back.

And now we live next to my parents, our backyards are connected and the children run back and forth finding sweet treats and hugs where they can. There is a deep sense of place and belonging, for now, for however long these days are here to offer those feelings. And it is very clear to me that the process of designing a home and beautifying interiors, which I’ve done many times over in many different countries, is only as effective as the stories they reveal. There is a reason some well designed spaces feel flat, not just in photographs but in reality. They are lacking a dimension, and that fourth dimension is the stories that still need to be brought to life. All the stories - of historic displacement, of self-imposed exile, of finally finding our place in the world. And of new stories yet to be told.

My mother, my baby sister, and my bike in front of our childhood home (circa 1983). And a glimpse of what would become my own family’s future home behind the trees, to the right.