Home by Definition

Home by Definition What defines the place we call “home”?

Photography and Writing by Jordan Hu

Home by Definition is a personal photojournalistic narrative that explores the definition of a “home” and death’s effect on it. In class we often talked about “journalism on foot,” but the approach I have chosen was through contemplation. Jordan Hu is a storyteller originally from West Windsor, New Jersey. His work attempts to capture a timelessness only ascertained through clear storytelling.

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When I first laid eyes on her standing next to the corroding doorway of our house in Taipei, I barely recognized her. What I remember so vividly to be a physically fit and healthy woman that would wake up at 5 a.m to climb the neighboring mountain was now nothing but skin and bones, unstably wobbling even with the support of a wooden cane. Peering at me through dulled out half-closed slits, she weakly called out my name.

It’s been a few years since my family received the shocking news that she had lung cancer. At the time, it didn’t have an emotional impact on me because in spite of her illness, she remained the same. There was an indefinite shift

within the overall atmosphere, but for the most part nothing changed and life continued. She was able to maintain a healthy complexion and went about her daily routines as if purposely shunning cancer into feeling negligable. The thought of her incurable malady even began to dissipate from my mind.

As the following years flew by, I started noticing the subtle changes within her. She slowly but surely started losing a little of her vibrant complexion, a little of her weight, and a little of her energy with each passing visit. There has always been an inner strength about her that I have always admired from afar. It is a strength that is silent but at the same time stubbornly showcased through her demeanor. Now the dimming strength has started gradating towards fragility. Contrary to my father’s delusion of her possible abiding time with us, I knew that this trip would be one of the last moments I would be able to spend time with her.

During my two-week long stay in Taipei, I had a long-awaited epiphany. Sitting with my sister in our upstairs bedroom, I remember her saying, ”…it will never be the same, you know. When she is gone, Taiwan will no longer feel like home.” The gravity of her truthful words latched onto me and it remained a lingering thought at the back of my head throughout the rest of my stay. I hadn’t considered the ramifications after she was gone and the effect it would

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have on our annual trip to Taiwan. Suddenly, it seemed as if I had no purpose in going back to Taiwan if she wasn’t present. This long-awaited epiphany left me questioning the word man-kind refers to as “home” and the various associations that comes with it.

...it will never be the same, you know. When she is gone, Taiwan will no longer feel like home.

I’ve always considered Taiwan to be a home, but could never understand why. In a weird way, I associate the word “home” more with my house in Taiwan as opposed to my house in New Jersey.

As I only return at most a month once a year, anybody would think otherwise. There is even an immediate innate tension that occurs whenever I publicly identify Taiwan as a home. From the way I look, dress, and speak, residents are able to discern that I am clearly not one of them. Nonetheless, this isolated sentiment of alienation is merely a fragment of the overall experience in going back. Taiwan has managed to maintain an inwardly nostalgic feeling within me that nowhere else has. It is a place where progression is slow and almost nonexistent. Consequently, the simple little pleasures that compiled my childhood still exist.

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She used to make me the same exact breakfast every morning— homemade scallion pancakes with a fried egg on the side, finished with just a dash of white pepper sprinkled on top. This was followed by a fresh mango, carefully selected the morning of from a nearby market. She would expertly peel the mango with a knife and slice the fruit into evenly proportioned cubes. Afterwords, she would ask the same repetitive question, “did you enjoy the meal?” as if my affirmation was crucial for her to continue on with her day. There was something so meaningful and indescribably beautiful about this particular meal. It wasn’t in the food

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alone, but rather the entirety of meal; how it was precisely made and lovingly prepared, right down to the very last detail of her asking the question when I finished the meal. In an unsuccessful attempt to bring the recipe back with me to the states, I asked her for the ingredients. However, what I made would never come close to tasting the same no matter how much I tried. Therefore, it becomes a recipe that only exists through her.

There was something so meaningful and indescribably beautiful about this particular meal There is a tiny family-run Xiao Long Bao cart at the very end corner intersection of the road my house is on. For brunch, I would oftentimes grab 6–7

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dumplings and an iced soybean drink to go. It has been there for as long as I can remember and the most progression it has seen over the years is that it now has indoor seating. I remember developing an odd fascination with the way the people wrapped the dumplings. I would stare intently at their nimble fingers, overly impressed at how speedily they were able to create the folds in the dough. I have always joked that if design doesn’t work out for me, that I would open my own Xiao Long Bao cart in Taiwan, and still be content with life. The quality of simplicity about that tiny family–run business would have disappeared had it flourished into a more sizable business. The simple mundane lifestyle demonstrated in Taiwanese culture discloses to me that you don’t need much to feel fulfilled.

Taiwan becomes a preservation of remnant memories that make up my childhood. Being there makes me feel as if I still have access to bask in each individualized memory that has made me comfortable enough to call Taiwan a second home. Unfortunately, the reality is that this intangible sensation of “home” has already started to deteriorate along with her health. She is the blueprint of a foundational structure that is fabricated by the various associ-ations I have to the country. Without her, everything will come crashing down. Death is a weird thing. It is a topic so jarring and gut-wrenching that it creates inner turmoil and distress. Yet it can also bring out the best in those that witness it.

The removal of a life becomes a reality check that gives leeway for people to reflect back on their own lives and further search for a deeper understanding beyond themselves.

But the reality is that even that realization is short-lived, because over time the memory of that person starts to fade away and eventually, they are forgotten.

This story was written by Jordan Hu. The photographs were taken with a Canon EOS 600D and a Samsung Galaxy S5 in Taipei, Taiwan throughout a course of two-weeks time. Huge thanks to Professor Mike Fink.