Dec 21, 2024
Writing Prompt
How could she have ever, even for a split second, dreamed of being with someone else? She loved [——], would always love only him.
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Writing Prompt
How could she have ever, even for a split second, dreamed of being with someone else? She loved [——], would always love only him.
Homeseeking: A Novel
By Karissa Chen.
Like you've never thought about it.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you would be able to come up with the perfect, funny yet gently crushing response to every unfortunate comment or microaggression uttered in your presence. No one would ever get mad at you for saying it; everyone would just leave the party or classroom or subway car talking about your wit and compassion and how cool you were under pressure, and on your way out strangers would thank you for really making them think.
Homeseeking Summary: A Heart-Wrenching Tale of Love & Exile
Homeseeking Summary: A Love Story Interrupted by History Hello, fellow readers. Welcome to My Journey into the Heart of “Homeseeking” This book came as a recommendation from a friend, and it truly deserves your attention — as well as a proper review and summary. And that’s exactly what I’ll be doing in this article. When I closed the final page of Karissa Chen’s Homeseeking, I felt as though I…
Discover the epic and intimate Homeseeking Summary — a story of love, displacement, and enduring memories across six decades in the Chinese diaspora.
Homeseeking Summary: A Heartbreaking Tale of Love, Loss, and the Search for Home https://bookstothrive.com/homeseeking-summary-spoilers/ “A single choice can define an entire life.” Have you ever wondered how much one moment or decision can alter the course of your destiny? Homeseeking by Karissa Chen invites readers into the powerful world of those whose lives were torn apart by history, yet bound by love that lasts decades. This Homeseeking summary explores the intimate story of Haiwen and Suchi, lovers separated by war, distance, and time, yet forever connected by the memories they carry and the hope for home. Chen’s novel spans six tumultuous decades, following the journey of a couple navigating the upheavals of 20th-century Chinese history, from Shanghai’s alleyways to the song halls of Hong Kong, and eventually to the immigrant neighborhoods of the United States. This summary delves into the novel’s poignant plot, unforgettable characters, and resonant themes while spotlighting author Karissa Chen’s distinctive storytelling.
Homeseeking Summary: A Heartbreaking Tale of Love, Loss, and the Search for Home
Introduction: Homeseeking Summary & Analysis “A single choice can define an entire life.” Have you ever wondered how much one moment or decision can alter the course of your destiny? Homeseeking by Karissa Chen invites readers into the powerful world of those whose lives were torn apart by history, yet bound by love that lasts decades. This Homeseeking summary explores the intimate story of…
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Laila holds the wedge out to me, a honeycomb of jewels. Winking in the summer light. Capsules like love, like blood, like angry tears. Here, Grandpa, she says. Her chubby fingers slick with juice. Her chin dribbling.
I shake my head no. I say, You eat it, xin gan bao bei. My heart, my liver, my little treasure. She crouches in the grass, picking out individual seeds with her small finger, like she is scratching scabs. She rolls each one between her thumb and index. Eyes it, holds it to her lashes, tries to see through them. Red-tinged world.
Don’t you like pomegranate?, Laila says, face still flushed with delight.
Xin gan, bao bei, treasure, heart, liver. The night before I left our village, my mother had held me close to her breast. I was thirteen, the top of my head just beginning to pass her chin. She smelled like flour and oranges. Elsewhere, boys only a little older than me were dying, bleeding, calling for their mothers, dead. I didn’t know anymore who was doing the killing—the Japanese, the Communists, the KMT, my neighbors, my uncle, my father. My mother pressed me closer. Away from here, you will be safe.
Laila digs into the ground with a stick, a tangle of grass and dirt. She spits pomegranate seeds into the hole. They’re white, stripped bare. Like tiny grains of rice. I’m planting a tree, she says. Then we can eat all the shi liu we want.
My body recoils, curling into itself. But I say, Clever, bao bei.
Shi liu, pomegranate. That last morning, my mother pressed a large one into my hands, the lone fruit birthed by the tree in our courtyard. A snack for the road, a war-time treat, red like luck, like happiness, like New Year wishes. I’d never held such a precious thing before. Think of this as a school trip, my mother said. The cart was filled with other children. An overcast sky. My mother stood by the road, hands wrung into her shirt. No matter what, come home, my mother said. When you’re fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, sixty. I will wait for you.
Laila is counting the seeds she’s collected in the hole. First in English, then in Chinese. Whispers like prayers, like blessings. What are you doing? I ask, and Laila says, I’m counting sixteen seeds. If I plant sixteen pomegranate seeds, they’ll all grow.
Shi liu, pomegranate. Shi liu, sixteen. By sixteen, I am alone, motherless in Taiwan, with no way back to the mainland. Liu shi, sixty, and I am old, I am in America, far from home, I am watching my granddaughter pluck sixteen rubies to grow.
I remember: My friend’s mother had given him a hardboiled egg for the journey. Squeezed next to me in the cart, he rolled it along his thigh, back and forth. My mother smiled from the road, her hands pressing her elbows. She looked like the thin white birch that lined our village. I cupped the pomegranate in my palms, brought it to my nose. Inhaled its earth. I wondered if there would be more fruit by the time I returned.
Laila pushes dirt into the hole, pats it into a little mound. She sprinkles pith on top, a cracked red piece of rind.
That leather, that red-brown skin, that powder beneath my nails. I was hungry, I was thirsty, I couldn’t wait. The cart began to move. The fruit split open to white membrane, crimson abundance, its juice wetting my fingers. I bent down to lick my hands, to slurp the sweetness.
Laila stands and brushes dirt off one hand, her other hand still holding pomegranate, her shorts stained red and brown. A few lonely pods remain, standing out like ruby teeth.
Shi liu like blood. Shi liu like home. Shi liu, trove of pain and blame. The cart was gaining momentum. My friend nudged me, said, Your mother is waving, but I was biting, savoring the burst of red honey on my tongue.
Shi liu, a torrent, swiftly moving away.
When I looked up, we were rounding the bend. My mother was gone.
Laila runs up to me, holding out the last of the fruit. Grandpa, she says. Eat, eat, I urge her. She shakes her head, looking back at the mound. For good luck, Laila says. They won’t grow unless you eat too. I stare at her, at her lips stained red. Grandpa, she pleads, her wrist shaking gently in my face, I want them to grow. Laila, her name sounding like coming, like arrived, like I am here. My mother’s eyes, my mother’s mouth. Grandpa, she says once more, and waits. Three seeds gleaming in her palm.
by Nicole Chung and Karissa Chen
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you would be able to judge a book by its cover. Literally. You’d never waste your time reading books that would only disappoint you.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, when you were a kid, every time you had a question about anything (“How do you spell ‘loquacious’?” “Do sharks sleep with their eyes closed?”), LeVar Burton would tell you to take a look, it’s in a book. And when you complained about how annoying Dad was being, Yo-Yo Ma would play a slow, sad song on the cello, and they’d laugh at you (never unkindly) as you stomped away.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, no one would be permitted to “joke” about arts and humanities majors’ dead-end jobs in your presence. No one would even want to.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, among your most cherished childhood memories would be the epic yearly camping trips you took together. You would eat hot dogs and s’mores around the campfire while LeVar Burton told the spookiest ghost stories, never the same one twice, and when you couldn’t take it anymore—oh my god WHAT WAS THAT NOISE???—Yo-Yo Ma would bring out his second-best Strad (he doesn’t like to bring “Petunia,” his favorite cello, when you guys are roughing it) and play soothing concertos and Appalachian lullabies until your frayed nerves and racing heart finally calmed down, and various woodland animals (only the cute, friendly ones) would creep out of their dens and burrows to listen, too.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, they’d have three scrappy tomcats named Pablo Casals, Mstislav Rostropovich, and James Joyce. Pablo would rule the roost, Mstislav would be the valiant hunter, and James would essentially be a dog in cat form who would come when you called and sleep at the foot of your bed when you visited.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, there would be overflowing floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in all the rooms in your house—even the bathrooms—and every time you borrowed a book, LeVar Burton would make you choose another one to donate to the library. As you got older he’d make sure that every time you bought a book from the bookstore you also bought one to give to someone else, and this would be your religion, a practice you would never stop as long as you lived.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you’d have a gorgeous, light-filled, airy study to work in every day, and your desk would always be perfectly neat and organized, and your window seat cushions would be many and soft.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you’d be able to carry on casual conversations in six or seven languages, and when you referred to yourself as “a citizen of the world” somehow it would always sound sincere, never smug.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you’d never experience writer’s block. You’d see amazing ideas everywhere, from that baby with the ducky shoes who tried to eat a chopstick you dropped in a restaurant to the guy dancing all by himself on the subway. You would never lack for inspiration, and you’d always know exactly what other people’s stories needed, too.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, they would’ve fully supported you when you insisted you weren’t going into the arts just because they did; you were going to be a doctor: “You’ll be a great doctor! Always good to have one in the family!” They wouldn’t say anything when you came home from frog-dissecting day in biology class with a pale face, vaguely smelling of puke. When you changed your major from pre-business to comp sci to communications to history, they’d tell you that they just wanted you to like what you were studying. And when, two years into your job as a paralegal, you finally quit and called to tell them you’d decided to get your MFA, there would be only the briefest of pauses, and then LeVar Burton would say evenly, “That’s wonderful news, sweetie,” and Yo-Yo Ma would add, “As long as you’re happy,” and you would tell them you loved them, knowing that as soon as you hung up they’d be high-fiving and whooping with delight.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, they would come to every performance of every student play you wrote or produced or appeared in. They’d argue over whose turn it was to bring you flowers, and then you’d just end up with two equally beautiful bouquets every night.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you’d have perfect pitch, play four instruments (including one so obscure only two virtuosos are currently alive in the world), and sing so beautifully in the car that other drivers would non-creepily compliment your voice at red lights.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you’d all be friends with all the Obamas. They would leave you birthday voicemails and “love” all your Facebook photos and save you primo seats at the Kennedy Center Honors (even in those years when your dad wasn’t performing). And of course you’d be sure to call them “Mr. President” and “Mrs. Obama” out of respect, but you’d all know that once 2017 rolled around and they were living semi-private lives again and dining at your dads’ house, it’d be “Barack, can I refill your wine glass?” and “Michelle, I told you I’m never playing Trivial Pursuit against you again; I have my pride.”
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, reading would always be allowed at the dinner table, so long as you were willing to provide a brief summary and explain why you would recommend it to the group.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, your orchids would never die, no matter how much you overwatered them.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you would be able to come up with the perfect, funny yet gently crushing response to every unfortunate comment or microaggression uttered in your presence. No one would ever get mad at you for saying it; everyone would just leave the party or classroom or subway car talking about your wit and compassion and how cool you were under pressure, and on your way out strangers would thank you for really making them think.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you would be a travel goddess: no matter how long the trip, no matter what the season, you would be able to fit everything you needed in one small roller bag and one reasonably sized tote. You would never suffer through an unplanned overnight layover in the Atlanta airport, your carefully packed shirts and dresses would never wrinkle, your hair products would never explode mid-flight, and you would always look and feel like yourself no matter how long you’d been on a plane. And on those nights when you found yourself all alone in a strange hotel room in a strange town where no one even knew your name, you’d order comfort food from room service and watch your top three or four favorite episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation on Netflix before falling into a sound, refreshing sleep.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you would know how to take a compliment graciously and also fight like hell for what you deserve—like that raise you’ve had coming! With extra paid leave, too, because if your dads have taught you anything, it’s that family is important.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, your favorite moments from childhood, your all-time best days, your greatest personal triumphs would never fade away. All your dearest-held memories would be forever accessible, as bright and vivid as if they had occurred only yesterday.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you’d never accidentally read a spoiler for a book you’d been dying to read. And if anyone happened to be talking about intriguing plot twists in your vicinity, their words would magically fade just before reaching your ears, and all you would be able to hear until they moved on to another topic would be the deep, soulful notes of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G.
If LeVar Burton and Yo-Yo Ma were your dads, you’d treat each and every person you met with kindness and compassion, recognizing their individual worth and talents and their limitless human potential, because you’d want to, because that’s who you are—and because that’s what your dads would want you to do.