I was born and raised in the San Gabriel Valley (yes, the valley next door to the San Fernando Valley). There are a lot of arguments to be made about whether or not the SGV is considered ‘Los Angeles’ but my rule is that, if it’s in LA County, takes 25 minutes (without traffic) to get to downtown LA, then it can be considered Los Angeles. 

I grew up surrounded by people like me. People looked like me, spoke like me, ate like me. But I also grew up surrounded by people not so much like me. People looked different, spoke differently, ate differently. And that was the beauty of it: our similarities and differences made Los Angeles into the Los Angeles we know and love–a cultural hub where I never really had to think much about how I presented myself. As long as I didn’t have crazy mannerisms, even if I dressed a little crazy, then I wasn’t really crazy. 

I have a very stereotypical Valley Girl accent that comes out a lot stronger than I’d like it to when I have a little too much to drink or as soon as I land back home at LAX. I never paid much attention to it because people around me spoke the same way. The ‘annoying’ vocal fry and dragged out words was my favorite form of communication. You could say a whole lot without really saying much, as long as you draaaaaaaaaaaaged the vowels, low and slow, and ended sentences with a question mark (ex: I am soooooo exciteeeed for the concert coming uuuuuuup?) 

Los Angeles is the place so many people dream of, yet I hated it. Why, I couldn’t really tell you, but I knew I didn’t consider it home. Fortunately for me, an opportunity arose (backed by a lot of money and privilege) and I was able to go abroad to the UK for university. Such a jump, Southern California to southeast of England. But it has been my dream since I was a kid: to go to England. 

So many people asked me why I would ever move from LA to Norwich and I answered, ‘I wanted a change of scenery.’ 

Before going to England, I would find people who were in the same graduating year as me and think about what my university life would look like: loads of friends, going out every other night (priorities aren’t straight when you’re 18), and most importantly, I wanted to truly find myself. Find out what I liked, who I liked and learn how to be happy, since I wasn’t very happy in LA. 

And so it begins, my journey across the globe. I was excited; it was my first time away from home. no curfews, no bumping into people I knew and I could live my life on my own terms (within financial reason). 

It was great. I made new friends, found someone I really, really like, went out a lot, drank a lot, had a lot of fun my fresher’s week. There was a lot to learn, like which Tesco meal deal combinations will get you the most out of your £3.50; which Cadbury chocolate bars are the best and where you get cheap groceries, but I valued my convenience over saving money, so that short, treacherous walk to Aldi wasn’t done many times. 

I was living the life I envisioned and frankly, I felt content. But my honeymoon phase was short-lived and three months had gone by. I visited home for the first time since I left for Norwich in September. I originally didn’t plan to, but something in me told me to go home. 

It felt different. In three short months, it felt like everything, yet nothing, had changed. I noticed the deep-set wrinkles on my parents’ faces for the first time. I noticed how the furniture never changed but the pile of hoodies and random bags on top of the chair my dad brought home from the sides on the streets years ago in our living room, changed. Even the weather was far from what I remembered, it was very wet. The biggest change was that I felt homesick for the first time since leaving. 

Suddenly, I yearned to be in the sun again, going to the most beautiful beaches with my friends during the summer, talking about life and our interests and what hiking trail to go on. I wanted to eat the delicious food that home had to offer, my beloved Okinawa purple sweet potatoes and Chobani sweet cream coffee creamer, In-N-Out burgers and the Taiwanese spicy soup from Boiling Point, my mom’s Vietnamese seafood gumbo and spicy beef noodle soup, and the best street tacos the SGV has to offer where I got extra al pastor. 

I yearned to not be seen as so different, yearned to not have to neutralize my ‘annoying’ valley girl accent so people would take me seriously and stop making fun of me for it. I wanted to be in the comfort of my people, mix of Valley Girl and Chicano/a accents. And there I was, surrounded by the people I dearly missed. I missed the hospitality, the fearlessness of people to come up to me and start conversations. People understood the slang I grew up with, the different variations of the words ‘yeaaaaaah’ and ‘noooooo,’ and most importantly, people didn’t view me as an outsider. 

I started driving two years after I got my license. Driving wasn’t that bad with the exception of a few BMW and pickup truck drivers. I remember my first ‘long distance’ drive: it was to Treasure Island Beach in Laguna Beach. I sat in countless hours of traffic on the 405, the 5, and the 210. Luckily car karaoke got me through all of those hours. I went to the beach (and struggled with parking) a little too often and became a regular at Boiling Point and AU79 Teahouse in Arcadia. 

It took me leaving home to appreciate my home. I used to write in my journal asking why I don’t feel at home anywhere, even if I try to make anywhere as home-y as possible. I wish I could tell 18-year-old me that I’ll figure out my home in three short years. So, Los Angeles, I’m sorry for ever hating you. 

Photocredit: San Gabriel Valley on Wikicommons