It’s happening.

I knew it was going to happen.

They told me it was going to happen. And that it’s natural. It’s normal.

But man...I didn’t want it to.

I’m missing home.

I just woke up from a dream about going to South Padre Island with my family and my Aunt Brenda.

I’ve had a dream about driving somewhere with my older brother Michael, getting lost and arguing like we would in real life.  

Before that was a dream about going home and finding out that my family had moved into a new house. The house was nice, except for the fact that there weren’t enough bedrooms for me to have one. I guess a nightmare.

It’s hard not to be homesick when your subconscious is doing it for you. 

The language barrier isnt helping any either, and my TexMex definitely does nothing for me. Who knew "chingy" was not an actual word. 

There’s a priest in our parish here that looks just like my family’ schnauzer Silver. There is a community agent named Monica who I work with, whose name makes me think of my cousin.

There is a file on my desktop named “Aunt Carmen’s” from when I helped her type up some labels for my Uncle Andy’s Un-Retirement party where I saw almost all of my cousins in one place, which is rare. It also makes me really miss my family in Tennessee, Ohio, Chicago and Indiana.

The book I use when I pray the rosary has the name Priscilla Johnson on the inside of the cover. So that reminds me of the rosary group. (Also, sorry about the longterm borrow Mrs. Johnson).

Every day I drive by an event center called El Flamingo on my way to work. It has a giant faded metal flamingo over its gate which is the mascot of my fraternity in college—which begins my 7 minute long daily daydream about memories with my boys and my friends and my cousin Marrah at St. Mary’s and imagining what they’re all doing now.

It’s not that I’m having a bad time here either! I’m loving it. The other day, I was walking down the street, trash and dust blowing past me, the sun setting over the mountain with the cross on top of it, kids yelling in the street, parents yelling at the kids yelling in the street, and I felt strange. A smile slowly crept onto my face.

“What is this that I’m feeling?”

I pictured that scene in the How the Grinch Stole Christmas where the Grinch’s heart is growing and he’s freaking out.

I felt really truly happy. Probably the happiest I’ve been in a while. I started to laugh to myself, then saw an old man sitting cross-armed on his stoop shaking his head at the weirdo gringo. So, everything is great.

But I mean…there’s no peanut butter here.

Most people don’t even know what it is.

Little things like that make me miss home. Remind me of my family, my friends, my culture.

Memories can attack at any moment. The sound of grease sizzling in a pan for instance, took me back to thoughts of being little, waking up to the smell of chorizo and egg tacos and cooking potatoes, Tejano music coming from the Johnny Canales show on T.V., all the windows being open to let in the breeze from a cold front. 

Katie and I tried making our own tortillas. They came out alright, but they just weren’t the same. And most definitely were not round.

Memories like these give me strength and also take it away. I think, “These are all the people, all the reasons I’m doing this.” And simultaneously, “I wish I was with them, I wish I could be there.” 

My Aunt Ofie told me, right before I left, to keep busy. If I stay busy, I wont feel homesick as often. Which has been some really good advice. But are times when I just want to be homesick you know? 

And it has only been a month. What am I going to do?

I’m going to try making peanut butter for starters. Then, Ill take my brothers advice and see about building a BBQ grill in the back yard because nothing says home like corn on the cob and a medium rare steak.

Can’t be that hard…right?