The Red Dirt Roads That Led Me Home: When I Call Uganda Home...

I don't mean that I grew up there.

I'm not saying that I'm Ugandan.

And I'm not moving across the country.

Technically, Chicago is my home. And loyal to Chicago I'll forever be. It is in my blood.

But I know from experience that a person can have more than one home. And home doesn't mean that's where your roots began to grow or that's where you built your house. Home doesn't always mean that's where your family is or where you want to have a family one day.

Home is a place we are in love with. A place that we can't stop missing. A place where our feet may leave but our hearts never do.

Home to me is falling asleep to the traffic of 90/94 in the glow of streetlights. It's 7th inning stretches at Wrigley Field and winning Championships with the Bulls. It's putting mustard and pickle relish on your hot dogs and drinking lots of beer on outdoor patios. Home to me is Navy Pier and Michigan Ave and Wicker Park and Lincoln Park Zoo and running along the Lakefront (when I say run I mean laying out with a margarita and People magazine). Home is midnight Target runs with your sister while wearing pajamas. I love my home.

Another home that is growing inside of me is covered in forests instead of pavement. It's falling asleep in darkness, being sung to sleep by the nature outside your window. It's staring up at the mosquito net surrounding you like the canopies or tents you slept under as a child. It's being surrounded by the smell of an open fire and colorful meals. Home to me is welcoming red dirt between my toes. It's rolling mountainsides, twisting clay roads and schools filled with singing children. It is the beat of drums, the whistle of wind, and the pounding of dancing feet beating the ground over and over again. And this home looks good on me too.

Sometimes I am home because I am with my friends and family...