Dreams of America

On a Christmas morning long long long ago, I woke up early, excited to watch—yet again—a movie that would become an undeniable classic: Home Alone.

I felt an instant connection to Kevin. His wit, his humor, and that irresistible mix of innocence and mischief—it was as though I saw myself reflected in him. He took on bad guys in the middle of a snowy winter with nothing but clever traps and a relentless spirit, and I couldn’t help but wonder: could I do that too?

What must it feel like to live in a big house? To have older siblings? To revel in that delicious blend of abandonment and neglect that Kevin and I somehow shared? Home Alone wasn’t just a title—it was a state of being we both knew all too well.

Maybe I’m misremembering, but Kevin seemed to have this unguarded freedom I longed for. The ability to roam through town unsupervised wasn’t just a plotline—it became my childhood dream. To escape or better yet, be left alone.

And then, life imitated art. That dream manifested itself years later when I found myself in America. Suddenly, I was older—well, technically—but still fresh-faced and wide-eyed like a kid at Christmas. There I was, out on the snow, navigating the world unsupervised, just like Kevin. If only I could tell my five-year-old self: You did it, buddy. You became “Home Alone”.

Sure, I haven’t exactly fought off burglars with paint cans and micro machines, but there’s a metaphor in there somewhere. Every snowy sidewalk I’ve trudged, every slur I transmuted, every pushback I fought against, every little challenge I’ve faced, feels like my own version of those iconic battles except no one was watching.

One day, I hope to see a movie where I’m Kevin, showing the world that being home alone doesn’t break you—it makes you brave. Courageous. Resilient.

Because if there’s one thing Home Alone taught me, it’s this: even when the world feels too big, too quiet, or too empty, there’s still magic in finding your strength.

Chu