Roots Stretching

Aversion of my story:
In 1981 my parents and I escaped communist Poland three days before martial law was imposed. They left behind communism and they left behind families that didn't accept them for who they were. I grew up learning to be different and independent, knowing I can't rely on my roots to accept me.
The child of two bad fruits.
I didn't return to my country of birth until I was in the 8th grade. Until that time, I lived in Germany, Louisiana and Chicago. Everywhere I went, there were things about me that didn't fit in. My parents 'talked funny.' The food I ate was 'weird.' When I finally returned to Poland for the first time I saw faces that looked like mine, I ate food I thought was amazing, I met people who were nice to me just because I was family. But still, I was an outsider there. I spoke Polish with an American accent (even though it's my first language). I dressed differently.

But there was always one place that I felt fully at home, accepted, fully in touch with my roots, my mole, and that was in my grandfather's garden. I remember literally laying on the ground of his garden, close to the roots, dreaming up silly crossbreeds of the many fruits and veggies he already grew in his garden. My Grandfather has since died and I've since lived in lots more places. And now, moving to Hawaii, everything looks different, smells different, the air feels different from anything I've ever experienced.

I am most definitely an outsider. Again.

But still, somehow, I'm overwhelmed here by that same feeling I had hanging out with my Grampa, eating his strawberries halfway around the Earth... I think sometimes roots travel and stretch father than we can imagine.