Returning Home
Some fragmented thoughts on what it means to be at home, the beginnings of a garden, the new show "Heartstopper," the resilience of a wild ecosystem, and AAPI Heritage Month
Thursday, May 5
Grand Rapids, Michigan
Hello, friendly reader.
I’m curious: How do you define “home”?
This question has been on my mind during the past couple of weeks. I spent the last part of April in Belgium, on a reporting trip for Travel+Leisure. The focus of the trip: Brussels, the city where I studied abroad many, many years ago. Tristan joined me for a few days, before heading north on his own to explore a couple of cities in the Netherlands. It was a good trip, full of memorable meals and long walks, unexpectedly sunny days and expectedly good beer. But as soon as I landed in Grand Rapids, I thought: I am so glad to be home.
Almost as soon as the thought formed, I caught myself. I’ve written before about Grand Rapids being the place where we pretty contentedly live—yet it hasn’t felt like home. When I said that I was so glad to be home, was I talking about a geographic place or an emotional space? I didn’t get a single good night’s sleep during the entire trip; was “home” the thought of being in my own bed, with Fozzie curled up and snoozing nearby?
The question still nags at me: What is “home”?
This has dogged me for years. When I was 16, one of my high-school teachers told me that she suspected I’d never really feel at home anywhere, because I’m different. “This world is not your home, Jeff,” she said, with no small sigh of exasperation at my chronic angst. It was as if she had been briefed by my mother, who, throughout my childhood, whenever I complained about not fitting in, would warble a couple of lines from that old and annoying hymn This World Is Not My Home: “This world is not my home. I’m just a passing through....”
I would like to think that one’s home is a place of ultimate safety, but that can’t be true. As is our custom, I returned from Brussels as if I were a 19th century traveling merchant, loaded down with foreign goods: chocolate, coffee, speculoos cookies, beer. I also had another souvenir, COVID-19. If my body is the home I take with me everywhere, coming down with the virus reminds me that my physical being is not an impregnable fortress. It is not a safe space. It is imperfectly guarded. It is vulnerable.
I would like to believe that one’s home comes with clear title, but that can’t be true either. We bought this house in Grand Rapids about a year and a half ago, yet any notions of ownership have been tempered by my awareness that this property is not exclusively ours, and many of our neighbors couldn’t care less about deeds or boundaries. In one upper corner on our front porch, a robin has built her nest, and most hours of the day and night, I’ve found her sitting there—I assume urging her precious eggs to maturity. She regards Tristan and Fozzie and me warily whenever we come or go. Sometimes, she nestles a little deeper, protecting her eggs. Other times, she takes flight, narrating every flap of her wings with shrieks of alarm. At first I wondered whether it might be best to remove the nest. But the American robin has been here since long before we were—and long before Grand Rapids was even Grand Rapids. I wonder whether their ancestors handed down stories about these settlers, these intruders, these newcomers, these architectural manspreaders who have imposed themselves on this land.
I would like to imagine that one’s home is a shelter for body and soul. I follow a sulcata tortoise on Instagram named Fred (@fredyanagihara). He lives in Honolulu. I love to watch the videos of Fred lumbering around the garden, chowing down on romaine lettuce, and helping to trim the grass. I wonder what it would be like to carry with you that kind of built-in security system/umbrella/protective case; would Fred call his shell a home? Yet just as his body armor never lets Fred escape from himself, our homes can never protect us from ourselves or our own worst instincts—and those who have to live with us, well, they know too.
If there is no such thing as a truly safe space, maybe home, whether it’s one’s physical surroundings or a state of soul, can be the place where we cultivate just enough comfort to be a bit more courageous about facing the uncertainties of life—and even whatever might seem dangerous. Maybe it’s the space where we can somehow rest and be a little quicker to apologize when we err and feel rooted enough to summon our best selves. Maybe it’s wherever we can take a deep breath and remind ourselves that we are loved and that we belong.
We are in the midst of a renovation of our house. Praise God from whom all blessings flow: Our bathroom is nearing completion. We splurged on a Japanese toilet that has a warmed seat and cleansing sprays and even a little blow-dryer—don’t knock it until you’ve tried it—and the contractor installed the medicine cabinet earlier this week. Though we still have no appliances, the kitchen is beginning to look like a kitchen, now that the sink is in, as are most of the cabinets. It’s gratifying to see elements that we imagined take physical form. But for these aspects of a house to become a home will require a different kind of skill and a different sort of work—spiritual and emotional and relational.
In that sense, I think “home” will always be a work in progress—and that acknowledgment need not feel like a threat or a curse. How do we hold “home” tenderly yet loosely, honoring it yet not idolizing it? How do we build a sense of security while acknowledging our inherent vulnerability? How do we imagine the space where we live, whether it’s a body or a building, as a venue for hospitality, where hurt is handled tenderly, healing happens, and health is cultivated?
That’s the kind of home I dream of. That’s the kind of home I’m trying to build.
What I’m Growing: I am so, so behind this season. But COVID has meant I can’t really go anywhere, so I did spend some time in the yard. The spinach, bok choy, Chinese greens, and lettuce are in, and I planted more potatoes. As part of my effort to cultivate more beauty, I stuck a few bulbs in the garden late last fall, so we’re seeing the tulips and daffodils come in, which is delightful.
What I’m Watching: I rarely binge-watch anything, but during my convalescence—yes to words that make me sound like a frail creature battling consumption in the Victorian era—I powered my way through Heartstopper, the endearing Netflix series adapted from Alice Oseman’s web comic about a group of teens in suburban England. Heartstopper chronicles the blossoming friendship between Charlie, an out gay kid who has endured no smalll amount of bullying, and Nick, a star of the rugby team. It features an impressively diverse cast of characters, including Tao, a tall and angsty oddball who is one of the rare Chinese people I’ve seen on TV who isn’t saddled with all the usual stereotypes. I love how Heartstopper lets its characters wrestle with the complexity of adolescence.
Some critics have asked why the series doesn’t deal more explicitly with race. I get that; I think it speaks to the profound longing for representation and the immense pressure that inevitably gets applied to a show as daring as Heartstopper is. But I also appreciate the show’s relatively light hand and its patience in letting stories unfold as the characters learn and grow—they are teenagers, after all, and they’re still figuring things out. And I hope we’ll have more seasons during which each of the characters will be able to explore who they are in all their beautiful diversity. If you’ve watched Heartstopper, I’d love to know what you think.
What I’m Reading: It can feel at times as if the news is a relentless parade of bad tidings. But once in a while, I come across a story that delivers just a tidbit of hope. This piece gives a glimpse of the rehabilitation of the ecosystem on South Georgia, a South Atlantic island with a forbidding climate and remarkable biodiversity. It shows that, with time and attention and the investment of resources, the environmental toll of human presence can be undone. And it depicts just how resilient nature can be, if given a little bit of a helping hand and ample opportunity to do its thing.
Finally: May is Asian American Pacific Islander Heritage Month. I have deep ambivalence about these kinds of months, because while I understand the impetus behind them, it pains me that we even need them. I am Chinese not just in May but all year round, and I am gay not just in June but all year round. I’ve been thinking, too, about the term “Asian invisibility.” That wording seems to place the burden on those of us with AAPI heritage to make ourselves more visible. Somehow it’s not enough just to do good work in the world or just to be the best versions of ourselves that we can—or just to be. If only we shouted a little louder, shone a little brighter, fought a little harder to be seen, we’d find more belonging.
A while back, I had a conversation with a literary agent who said that it would never be enough for my writing to be beautiful; I’d have to tell readers as explicitly as possible how I could be helpful to them, because while they could relate to, say, straight, white moms with kids, they couldn’t relate to me. Her words stung. Yet anyone can see, by what sells and by who gets the greatest engagement and by how people are treated on social media, that she wasn’t entirely wrong. Her words have stayed with me, because as much as I want them not to be true, they are, at least partially. In her blunt statement, I heard an echo of the thing my parents taught me as a child: Make yourself useful.
Why am I telling you this?
First, because you, as readers, have power and influence. You get to help decide whether this is going to be a society in which full belonging is extended only to those who are most “relatable” or whether it will be one in which different kinds of stories and experiences and cultures are celebrated and treasured. You get to help decide whether those of us who come from minoritized backgrounds will always have to work a little harder and do a little more to earn our place or whether we get just to be. You get to help decide whether the voices that continue to be amplified are the ones that come from bodies that look and move most like yours, or if you might participate in reshaping the terrain so that the path ahead is just a little more equitable than it was before.
Secondly, I’m telling you this as an act of accountability for myself. Whenever you read what I have to say, and engage with it, and comment on it, it means more to me than I can say, because every little bit of interaction helps me keep writing honestly. Thanks for taking the time to read, which I count as a gift and even an act of solidarity in a world full of voices constantly clamoring for your attention.
I’m so glad we can stumble through all this together, and I’ll try to write again soon.
All my best,
Jeff
Folks, I am very gratified by your encouragement—and also please know that I didn't mean to be begging for affirmation, and I hope it did not come across that way! Writing can be such a lonely life, particularly when certain things are said that reinforce one's fears of isolation, and I am very thankful for the ways in which you have helped bulldoze that isolation today.
I stop everything when I see your newsletters. I sit down and savor. Thank you for the words, the heart and the courage