“Never make your home in a place. Make a home for yourself inside your own head. You’ll find what you need to furnish it – memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things. That way it will go with you wherever you journey.”

Growing up of mixed race and mixed culture can be a challenge only recognized later in life. Our parents never told us that much about our heritage – either one. So we pieced together our lives and identities from the few books we read about the Emerald Archipelago, and observing Flemish life around us. It took us ages to understand what our grandma meant when she inquired whether our friends in Jakarta were Chinese.

In fact, this remained such a (unintentional) mystery that we only in recent years have unearthed details about the history of our families and understood better where we come from. But the more we learn, the more we feel connected. My best friend even commented on the fact that I’ve become so much more in touch with my Asian side lately.

My dad told me about my family’s plight during the failed communist coup by the 30 September movement – perhaps orchestrated by the CIA; the ensuing killings of half a million alleged communists (many Indonesian-born Chinese); the discriminatory anti-Chinese laws; our family’s  forced name change; and ongoing ethnic violence and discrimination against ethnic Chinese – of which there are about 7 million in Indonesia – notably during the May 1998 riots.

In view of all that, it’s no wonder, that our grandmother, who lived through two world wars, and many anti-Chinese riots, wanted to make sure her granddaughters were with people who wouldn’t turn against them for their ethnicity and religion. And it’s then also no wonder that our cousins who did grow up in entirely Chinese-Indonesian families, look upon us weird when we tell them we’d like to learn more about the indigenous Indonesians. But why should we not, when our brother is half Indonesian?

Ultimately, finding our own identity, one that gives us peace with all the pieces of our history, is worth knowing as much as we can, about whichever ethnic group, the good parts of history and the bad.

Babysitting – what girl has not at some point been a babysitter? When I started babysitting, it felt special. Not because I loved the kids so much. Heck no. It made me feel part of the gang. Which gang? If you were a pre-teen girl in the late 80s, you know of what I speak: The Baby-sitter’s Club. I wanted to be Kristy Thomas so bad!

Cleaning – for a few summers in high school, I worked as a cleaning lady in an academic hospital. I had to wear a uniform three sizes too big and clean in just four hours an entire ward – patient rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, waiting rooms, etc. After a half hour break, I had to endure another 3.5 hours of cleaning special units, such as autopsy rooms and delivery rooms. There’s nothing like a job like that to make you study your ass off.

Telemarketing – I tried this as an alternative to cleaning, but duping people into buying time-sharing homes made me feel dirtier than scrubbing dead skin off an autopsy table.

Dishwashing – at the end of a night of doing dishes at a Spanish restaurant, I smelled so bad, my mother made me take off my clothes in the hallway before entering the house.

Bartending – without a doubt the funnest odd job ever. The bar was the foyer of a theater, which meant I also got to do coat check (good tips) and got to see all the plays for free. And bartending is just fun. Unlike waiting tables, you’re not maneuvering through crowds or wedging in between tables with full trays and it has a cool factor waiting tables just can’t match.

Mail delivery – getting up at 4am to rush to deliver mail in the rain, actually get chased by dogs cartoon style, not get paid the last two hours because you’re just too slow, and not getting to see your friends because you have to go to bed at 9pm. No wonder these people go postal.

Sales – if ever I was in the wrong job it was this one. I worked in two stores: gift and clothing. And I hated all customers alike. I just wanted to be left alone. But that, I suppose, defeats the purpose of a sales job. When a customer threw a shoe at me I knew sales and me weren’t meant to be.

Waitress – free dinner four times a week was great; laughing at lame jokes, being called to a table and then waiting because they hadn’t actually decided yet, and trying to carry three plates while toddlers run in front of you is not so great. I wasn’t allowed back after the summer.

English teacher – I taught first and third grade, which I did not enjoy because I spent more time telling them to sit and be quiet than actually teaching English. And I just got impatient how long it took those kids to write apple. I taught adult evening classes, which was fun at first, but then began to bore me. No, you can not say “womans”. * roll eyes* I did love teaching two brothers aged four and seven. Private tutoring at their home with their mom in the other room just a raised voice away to keep them from misbehaving. Wonderful.

And then we enter into the jobs that are actually on my resume: Publishing Assistant, Account Executive (Public Affairs Consultant), Press Officer, Marketing Communications Manager and Digital Media Strategist. While these are the jobs I can proudly display on LinkedIn, they are not quite as colorful as the odd student jobs, but how I do love what I do today – though sometimes, just once in a while, I do miss the bartending.

They say home is where the heart is. That is true. And for me it’s also where I make my nest so to speak. I can feel at home in most cities, places, even hotel rooms. The trick is to unpack everything right away and place things similar to where you would place them at home. As soon as my toothbrush is in the glass next to the sink, and my PJs are tucked under my pillow, I am home.

Munsterbilzen, Limburg, Belgium – my first breaths after coming home from the hospital.

Beverst, Limburg, Belgium – my first steps, smiles, hugs, words. Fond memories of: neighbors and running after chickens.

Berchem, Antwerp, Belgium – becoming a big sister. Fond memories of: singing loudly in the hallway to chase away the ghosts. If ever there was a scary apartment for kids, it’s this one.

Beverly Plaza Hotel, Taipei, Taiwan – the exhilarating life of expats in the eighties, hotel receptionists were babysitters, taxi drivers friends. I went to a local Taiwanese school, where I picked up Mandarin. Fond memories of: dinners with my dad’s colleagues in fancy Chinese restaurants, letting my shoe drop in the staircase from the top floor of a skyscraper and mom making me go get it, seeing a double rainbow out of our penthouse suite window, and many sightseeing trips across south east Asia.

Zhong Shan Bei Lu, North Taipei, Taiwan – learning to read and write in English, making it my second native language. Fond memories of: attending St Vincent de Paul school, holding hands with my first boyfriend VeeJay – at 8 he was twice my age, finding a live bat in bed with my sister.

Berchem, Antwerp, Belgium – readjusting to life without taxis, hotel rooms or typhoons; starting elementary school in Dutch. Fond memories of: weekends playing with cousins in grandparents’ backyard, first grade teacher.

Berchem, Antwerp, Belgium – moved across town following my parents’ divorce. Fond memories of: living in same building as best friend, going on vacation twice now.

Borgerhout, Antwerp, Belgium – starting middle school; discovering music, trends and trying to fit in with the cool crowd; changing schools, first summer jobs, graduating from high school with honors. Fond memories of: wild, crazy, teenage roller coaster ride of semi-adolescent experiences: youth center, downtown Antwerp cafes with pool tables, clubbing, friends, boys, working in the theater bar.

Keller, Texas, USA – first experience as an exchange student and first time in America. Fond memories of: meeting my future husband, driving around for hours in Anita’s Volvo.

Argyle, Texas, USA – that tough time in an exchange year when everything seems to fall apart, and then magically gets better. Fond memories of: the temporary host family and their enormous mansion.

Houston, Texas, USA – a new style of exchange experience and host family, college focused friends. Fond memories of: drinking Orange Juliuses at hip downtown Houston hangouts, taking all sorts of cool classes like photography and TV & Radio.

Loonbeek, Vlaams-Brabant, Belgium – living with my mom and step dad and working throughout the summer getting ready for the next chapter. Fond memories of: enrolling in university.

Heverlee, Vlaams-Brabant, Belgium – first university and dorm experience. Fond memories of: how I met some of my closest and best friends, staying up all night to study, party or gab.

Tainan, Taiwan – another exchange student experience, this time with my own apartment – though here too I moved four times. Fond memories of: everything! This was one of the best years of my life. Learning to ride a scooter, speak Mandarin fluently, play Magic with Canadian friends; teaching English; discovering every alleyway, temple and night market in town; traveling all over Taiwan; and best of all: going camping in the mountains with scooter and tents for new year’s eve.

Leuven, Vlaams-Brabant, Belgium – readjusting to life without scooters, tropical climate or late night shopping; starting my Master program and living in the tiniest of rooms. Fond memories of: getting closer to classmates.

Kessel-Lo, Vlaams-Brabant, Belgium – writing my Master thesis, living in a super spacious apartment, getting a second Master degree, after graduation finding first jobs, boyfriend moves in. Fond memories of: trip with besties to sun soaked Crete, having the time of my life in the exchange student environment of my Advanced Master class, getting my cat Simeon.

Bertem, Vlaams-Brabant, Belgium – here we are. Love, heartbreak, breakup, new job, better job, re-prioritizing life, new paramour, struggling to advance career. Fond memories of: becoming engaged, getting married, defining those life-long friends, acceptance of Self, lots of travel.

That’s 20. Phew. 21 needs to be more significant. Maybe to a house in the US?

For my second Master thesis I constructed a complex, academic rather obnoxious piece on the European identity. Does it exist, and if so, what does it imply? You can ask the same question for pretty much every nationality or ethnic group one may or may not feel a part of. And while I have trouble now understanding my own thesis as it’s full of academic drivel, I’m still intrigued by the premise of the question.

With the Belgian political crisis well beyond the absurd, non-Belgians must wonder why it’s so hard to form a government in so small a country. Answers can be reduced to historical linguistic issues or socio-economic concerns, but these surely only skim the surface of feelings that have been running through the veins of Belgians for decades. Belgium is a marriage of fundamentally different partners, compatible only through a shared love of good food and beer, who now feel the other has spent more of the household budget than is right and are considering separation, if not divorce.

While dividing the assets and the kid (the capital) may prove too cumbersome for a true divorce, this split or no debacle reveals many Belgians don’t identify themselves as Belgian. One might wonder what makes one a true Belgian? Is it the title on your ID? Do you have to be born here to qualify? Do you have to like waffles, chocolate and Jacques Brel? Do you have to speak Dutch, French and German or be fanatical about just one?

Similarly, what would make one European or American or Asian? When people complain that Obama isn’t really black, what in their minds makes one black or white? And why should he be less of either when he is clearly both? So what of mixed race babies? Because we are not one of the other,  can we therefore never fit in? In the sixties, we were quietly left on orphanage doorsteps what with being an embarrassment for both races. Now we are awkwardly accepted and often welcomed with imposing questions.

What ultimately defines a nation, a peoples, a cultural group? And when are we so different that we feel rejection of the Other is justified? I can’t even answer the question “Where are you from?, let alone “what cultural/racial group do you feel part of?” Identity is fluid. It can be flexible. It can be whatever you make of it.

I’ve always found I did not fit in, while also feeling at home everywhere. Every year I understand more about the culture and history of my families. And the more I discover about my background, the more I learn to feel like me. I feel more comfortable in my body, with my face, my crazy ass skin color (seriously, what color is it?), my abilities and disposition. Every year I appreciate those parts of me that were previously unknown and unaccepted. And as the world around me becomes increasingly intolerant of those who don’t fit, I become increasingly accepting and proud of that which makes me stand out.

I am.

And that’s just fine.