Living the dream … at home

In the middle of March, Farah Billah called her mom and said, “I hate my job.”

Billah worked for Kia Motors in Orange County, handling thousands of invoices from customers who wanted to be reimbursed for car parts that had been recalled. She took the job because her original shifts ran from 6 a.m. to 3 p.m., allowing her time in the evening to paint. But soon, Kia required her to work until 6 p.m., handling the work of “seven people,” she said. At the end of the day, all she had energy to do was eat, then sleep.

So she called her mom, who invited her to move back home. Now, no longer worrying about finances, Billah can build on her nascent art career that includes several sold paintings, a published book of poetry and a photography series—“Coriander Cats: Bengali Girls in the Wild”—that went viral for its novel cultural subversion and received coverage from multiple national media outlets.

“I have to sacrifice a lot of freedom to live at home,” she said. “But it’s definitely worth it because I would rather have this than live the life that I was living. And actually, my mom, today, just mentioned to me how happy she was that both her kids were at home.”

I could relate. I had graduated with honors, published an award-winning investigative report and remotely interned for a glitzy media outlet in New York, and yet, at the end of the summer of 2016, I couldn’t afford to continue living in the Silicon Valley while still doing the job that I liked. And with Sacramento’s rent and housing market skyrocketing, I never even considered apartment hunting. Instead, I moved in with two successful professionals who let me live rent-free, raid their fridge and had considerable investment in my health, education and happiness.

My mom was thrilled to have a chatting partner as my dad isn’t the most loquacious. Unstoppably helpful, she emailed me tips for stories. She bought me mortadella from Corti Bros.—my lunchtime favorite. And she took me down to the Golden 1 Credit Union to deposit my grandmother’s Christmas check into an IRA. The teller told us I was the youngest person to open such an account. By far.

In exchange, I made dinner most nights, answered the pleading meows of our fickle cat when he wanted indoors at 11 p.m. and chopped wood for my dad so he would have plenty of fuel for his brick oven. (I got fresh-baked bread and pizzas in return, so it was a beyond-fair trade.)

Living with them felt much different than it had in high school. At one dinner party, my parents invited over a couple who told me the story of how they learned my mom was pregnant: She had turned down a glass of wine on vacation—an unprecedented decision. Living with my parents as an adult helped me see them as more human. I realized how much I liked these people I loved. And how silly I was for feeling a twinge of embarrassment that I lived with them.

Salvan Chahal, an author, performance poet and a creative director at Sol Collective said that he’s “always lived at home.” The son of Punjabi immigrants from Fiji, he said his parents originally had reservations about his art, as it’s “not the most economical career,” nor what they envisioned for their son when they came to this country. But after performing around the United States, getting his work seen in foreign countries and hosting events like the recent “Poets of Color,” he said there’s been a shift.

“Before they didn’t really feel like they related to or enjoyed some of the shows I put on, but they knew it meant something important to me,” he said. “So now, anytime I have a show, they always want to come out because they want to see me doing what I do best.”

Billah said the last time she performed at Sol Collective, Chahal’s mom brought samosas backstage. Billah, whose parents came from Bangladesh, said my unconscious embarrassment about living at home came mostly from America’s individualistic society. She said in Bengali, many children live at home until they’re ready to get married.

“It’s a collectivist society,” she said. “[Parents] take care of you until you can take care of yourself. Then, when they get older, you take care of them. Nobody lets their parents live by themselves in old age. Generations live together, then the grandmother and the great-grandmother can help with the kids.” (It’s an arrangement my mom openly craves—but not, she stresses, until I’m much older.)

I moved out in April because I had saved money, accrued stable work and found an affordable apartment where I live with friends. But I still rely on my parents and visit at least once a week. My mom and I split bulk purchases of avocados and bananas. She recently bought me a pair of shoes. And I still sponge off the family cellphone plan. Should I ever need to move back, my parents say the door’s still open. Until then, if I want an invite to the next pizza night, there’s some wood that needs chopping.