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I've had many homes. In Novaliches, Marinduque, Waukegan, Gurnee. Many cities where I’ve had an address. Chicago, San Francisco, Daly City, Hollywood, Brooklyn. My identity has stretched or shrunk in many ways to fit into a different town or setting. The suburbs, the city, the ritzy neighborhoods. The streets were lined with clubs and dive bars where art students lingered. Cramped apartments with paper-thin walls. Corporate high-rises with glass windows that invited daydreams. Quiet cul-de-sacs where the glow of dinner tables flickered through windows. The bustling blocks where sirens and music aggravated the night. Each place reshaped me.
Melinda Alcantara (1963-2013) Lot 105, 1993 Dye-Sublimation Print on Photo Book
At the heart of these transitions, though, there’s always an image of home—rooted in something more ancestral. In the Philippines, it was the bahay kubo, the humble nipa hut, the original Filipino symbol of home. Built with bamboo, nipa palm, and woven nipa grass, it speaks of simplicity and sustainability—a space that breathes in the elements, open and airy, yet grounded. Designed to be movable, the bahay kubo could be dismantled and carried from place to place by the community, its structure lifted and balanced on shoulders. The stilt house adapted to its environment while maintaining a deep family connection. In many ways, it mirrored the life I led.
Over time, we fill the spaces we occupy. Our apartment, our house, our room, our parents' home, an office, a classroom—each becomes an extension of us without us even noticing. We decorate, we claim, and we form a routine. Every space carves out a different version of ourselves. And in all of them, I’ve searched for home.
Melinda Alcantara (1963-2013) Untitled, 1993 Dye-Sublimation Print on Photo Book
Melinda Alcantara (1963-2013) Untitled, 1993 Dye-Sublimation Print on Photo Book
For Papa, it was different. He laid roots, anchored himself, and stayed. Home was something you built and never left. Almost ten years after leaving the Philippines, he made his home in Illinois. For my parents, it was proof—that they had made it in America. They were proud, poring over every detail of the house—the plush carpet, the matte white walls, the forest green shingles, down to the trim and electrical outlets. They posed for pictures each Sunday after church, visiting the construction site to watch it take shape, tracking every step of the progress. A house meant stability, a shield from the world, a way to honor the sacrifices that brought us here. In many ways, it was a mark of arrival.
As I get older, I find myself searching for home, but I question what defines it. Is it revisiting the streets of your hometown, retracing the steps of your formative years? Is it where you feel most free, most safe? Is it where you’ve chosen to plant your roots? Is it a place you’ve spent decades in, or is it the motherland—the country where you were born, the place that shaped you from the start?
Minnie Rose Alcantara-Domingo (1983-) Untitled, 1993 Dye-Sublimation Print on Photo Book
For me, it’s the comfort of hearing Tagalog in the street or through an aisle. The unspoken head nod from someone you pass in the street. It’s the sound of soul or R&B songs playing in the street, reminding me of Saturday mornings. The smell of food calls me back to Lola’s kitchen. It’s the sound of her calling us to eat, the smell of fish frying in oil, the hum of The Filipino Channel and Tagalog soap operas on TV. It’s the sound of knocking on my Ate’s door.
Rodrigo Alcantara (1957-); Minnie Rose Alcantara-Domingo (1983-) Untitled, 1993 Dye-Sublimation Print on Photo Book
It’s a feeling of safety that shifts and stretches across cities, never confined to four walls. It’s revisiting my childhood house and realizing that while the decor stayed the same, I had changed. Home wasn’t the address—it was the presence of family and the faded objects that held the most vivid memories. Nineteen homes across two countries, nine cities, and three states—each one reshaped me, leaving pieces of myself scattered in every place. Home was never just a house but a collection of moments, memories, and the people who carry them with us.