It’s been a while since I last wrote for the Orient. You may remember my last contribution to this column, which had a brief stint of YikYak fame, titled “Why I can’t go home.” In it, I lamented the struggles of those of us (and we are few) that are students from the Deep South who miss their homes but are disillusioned with them. Obviously, the title was a bit of an exaggeration—I can go home, and, in fact, that’s exactly what I did last summer.

I spent the months of May to August enveloped in that thick southern humidity, enjoying the best parts of my hometown, trying hard to ignore the worst—at the summer camp I worked at, one camper confidently initiated an argument with me about whether or not the Earth was flat and the sun was a star. You can hopefully guess which side I was on.

All that to say, I went home for quite a while, and like always, collected my fair share of stories. Then, after I had done that, instead of packing up and driving the 25 hours back to Bowdoin, I packed up and flew 20 to Osaka, Japan. If you have talked to me in the past few weeks since returning to campus or follow me on Instagram, then you know this already, because I can’t seem to shut up about it. Studying abroad was everything that everyone always says it is. I grew, transformed, experienced, learned, culturally immersed, drank (legally!), etc.

And, in Kyoto, I collected yet another home. This time, I won’t say that I can’t go back. Maybe that was a poor choice of words anyway. Instead, I will simply say that it is unlikely. I’m curious, how many of you reading this have studied abroad—how many have traveled before then?

For me, it was really the first time I’ve left the country, unless you count a four-hour drive to Quebec, which I believe might be a mandatory part of every Bowdoin student’s time in Maine. Anyway, I had never crossed an ocean until last September. It’s thanks to my financial aid and the generous study abroad program I participated in that I was even able to.

I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on that first experience of leaving the country since returning. People keep asking, “How was Japan?”, after all. They keep asking, “Do you want to go back?” And, obviously. Subtracting my brief stint at the emergency room and one run-in with food poisoning, those were maybe the most exciting few months of my 20 years. However, there is a bittersweet feeling attached to those months that I have found difficult to put into words. When I think about the streets I walked every day, the bus I rode, the stop I transferred at, the golden ginkgo trees, and especially when I think about the friends I made there and my host mother, that feeling burns hot in my chest. It’s a feeling like I want to see them again, to live that again. But it’s another feeling on top of that, a question—will I ever be able to afford that on my own?

I used to try to avoid talking about being someone from a low-income family. It creates this awkwardness in both me and everyone around me. Nobody knows how to handle that subject when it’s a topic of conversation. I don’t really know how, either. What am I meant to say when I’m offered help or pity? I never know.

Lately, though, it’s been a part of my life that is too relevant to avoid bringing up. I have to keep answering this question, “Would you go back?” with a “Yes, but …”

Yes, but I might never. It just seems unlikely, unfathomable to me that I might ever stand in a country across the world on account of my own money. Coming from the background I do is both a source of embarrassment, of frustration, but also of pride. It’s unfathomable, but not impossible, like it might have been for my parents or theirs. I write this because I have found it difficult to say out loud, this unspoken melancholy I’ve been reflecting on, and I hope that I’m not alone in feeling it. I’m sure that I’m not.

In the meantime, I will continue searching for ways to get back to that new home I found, and to find new ones, in spite of this sentiment I’ve gone on and on about. Our ability as humans to find home wherever we go is a beautiful one. And, in writing this column, I hope I can continue to try capturing some of those hard-to-express feelings we share across the student body and learn about some unfamiliar ones as well.

Annie Allen is a member of the Class of 2027.