Hawaiian Surferboy or California Dreamboat?

Countless philosophers and literary figures have tried to define the concept of "home." I define home as the most convenient place to say you are from in order to justify rooting for a particular sports team or wanting to work in Washington D.C. I recently told a Big Four recruiter that I didn't have a home and wanted to move to the East Coast. I didn't get that internship, but I think he was impressed. Most commonly, I either tell people that I am from Hawaii or California.

On the one hand, I have photographic and testimonial evidence that proves I spent at least three years of high school in Hawaii. In most of these pictures, I will be either on the computer or playing video games, but if you look closely enough, you can just make out the ocean in the background.

While in Hawaii, I attended Mid-Pacific Institute, a private school for those who can’t get into Punahou or Iolani but still want to feel superior to the world. I was one of about ten or so haoles (white people) in my graduating class; as a result, I came to BYU thinking I was Asian.

I'm not gonna lie. I like the attention I get when I tell people I'm from Hawaii. However, even people I met on my mission to India intuitively knew that I wasn't a native of Hawaii. The truth is that I spent most of my childhood in sunny Southern California.

I was born in the O.C, which you might recognize from such shows as the O.C. Please refer to that show for more information about my childhood there. At the age of twelve, I moved to Moorpark, California where I attended high school with Dennis Pitta, star tight end at BYU and now with the Baltimore Ravens of the NFL. On a side note, Dennis Pitta would probably be unable to identify me from a group of strangers on the street.

My family still owns our home in Moorpark, a beautiful brick mansion sitting atop a hill and surrounded by twenty acres of avocado and lemon orchards. We initially sold it to a man who was later arrested for using his airline to smuggle drugs for the Mexican mafia. That transaction didn't go through, and we kept the home. Every Christmas my family meets up at our Moorpark house, and guess who doesn't get to go home to Hawaii . . . Steven Benjamin Hilton.

I actually haven’t even been to Hawaii for over a year, but I do love the place. I don't know of another place on Earth where a guy could move into a new high school during his sophomore year and feel so welcome. And on the rare occasion that I get to return, I love kicking it at home with my boys Kirk Fong, Frederick Rohlfing, and Jordan Berardy . . . provided they want to come visit me at my house, because it’s a long way down from the top of the ridge.

So, I’m going to have my cake and eat it on this one. I’m both a Hawaiian surferboy and a California dreamboat . . . ladies.