On Returning Home

a letter about memory, moving, and Karina Yan Glaser's THE VANDERBEEKERS ON THE ROAD

Dear friends,

Hello! I started drafting today’s newsletter, as I so often do, while I was on break, three weeks off for Easter during which I returned stateside for a conference and to see my family at home and then flew back to London again. (Are British kids ever in school? Apparently not hehe.)

Since moving to the UK, I’ve returned several times home, but on this most recent trip, I was startled by the weight of its familiarity. I’ve always considered myself a homebody, someone who delights in the comfort and rhythm of the home, and so I suppose it’s no surprise that I can recount in such vivid detail the house in which I grew up, the way the porch door slams, how the radiators hum, the feeling of the rug in the living room versus that in the dining room versus that in the playroom. And for every physical detail, I can offer you one connected to a family member: the puzzle on rotation in the dining room, courtesy of my dad; the cabinet that showcases my mom’s milk glass collection; the bathroom countertop that clutters too quickly when my siblings and I are all home.

Of course, what I describe will always be a remnant of time, a memory rather than what exists in the present. We’ve moved away! My mom is redecorating! Additions are being added! And yet, again on this trip, I was comforted that my senses haven’t forgotten; I stepped into my living room, and my nose knew I was home. I think there’s an element of ritual to it: live in a place long enough, and everyday actions—opening the window, making breakfast, taking a shower—become traditions the body is hardwired to remember, time lapsed (or new furniture) no matter.

My friends in the UK have little conception of my home in Massachusetts (and, likewise, most of my friends stateside only know what pictures I’ve shown them of my flat), and that makes me sad. I suppose, like the body, I want you to know intimately the places I’ve called home because of the meaning I assign to them. I am a product of place: to know my home(s) is to better know me.

+

A tangent. On my flight to the US, I read the sixth book in the Vanderbeekers series. I’ve shamelessly proclaimed my love of these books over the years, so many of you have already been the recipient of my recommendation. Read these. They will make you smile and cry. The series centers on one family, two parents and five siblings, who live in New York City. In the sixth installment, we find the family on the road, traveling cross-country in honor of their grandfather who planned a similar trip years prior. Minor hijinks, as you might expect from a middle-grade novel, ensue.

Like every other book in the series, I loved it. I can’t really tell you why I obsess over the Vanderbeekers so much. Or I could try, but I would fail. Nevertheless, a feeble attempt: I find something beautiful in Yan Glaser’s refusal to present anything more than a family (albeit a large one) going about their days. The stories are a lovely reminder that our lives are worthy of a narrative. But more than that, I think my adoration stems from Yan Glaser’s representation of the world as one where love is abundant, where neighbors care for one another, where kindness drives action. And though it’s all fictional, the qualities of this home—that is, using home as a community, not just a synonym for a house—feel fully within us readers’ real-life grasp.

Upon finishing The Vanderbeekers on the Road, I reviewed it and said it had me crying. It’s a statement I find myself throwing around a lot these days, and I suppose what I mean by it is that I was overcome with emotion, utterly verklempt—so it’s not that I actually produced tears but rather that the book filled me with so much and I lack any better word to describe what is really the enormous feeling of peoplearegoodthereismagiceverywherecommunityisimportantisntlifejustspecial and so I settle for saying I cried. I might call it love, but it’s love, supercharged: with gratitude, warmth, and enchantment with everyday life.

And it’s all love, really, for people and a place that have nestled themselves in my open heart. I chase this feeling, eager to bottle it up and express it loudly whenever I experience it, whether in the pages of a book or among my own family and friends. When I was younger, I was envious of characters like the Vanderbeekers (see also: The Penderwicks, The Mother Daughter Book Club, Ann M. Martin’s Main Street series), convinced that my life lacked the vibrant and abundant community so apparent in their fictional lives. Now, I’m realizing more and more that this love was always right in front of me—perhaps I just needed to move away, grow up, to realize it.

+

Returning to the United States had me aware of my newfound foreignness. I forgot how to tip. I stumbled over words, catching myself saying “queue” instead of “line, “flat” instead of “apartment,” “keen,” “crack on,” “rubbish.” I marveled at taking the subway and realizing you don’t have to tap out. My newest home is imprinted on me, and I can’t—nor do I really want to—scrub it off.

Meanwhile, at my conference, I was reminded of what it means to be an arts educator in America in that you are almost always justifying your existence. During the panel on which I spoke, we opened by speaking on paradoxes, much like this one (we value the arts by doing nothing for them at all), that you encounter as an artist-educator. In typical me fashion, I spoke about wrestling with my professional dilemma of working in a school when I’m largely against what school, in the traditional sense, (re)produces. My friend and co-panelist Giri spoke about living in two places and being positioned on the margins of both, a feeling I can relate to.

But this is all a long way of saying: I’ve since been thinking about the paradox of my own life, in which I am homesick, and yet I also love my home away from home. I’m far away from so many people I care for, and yet my love for them has never felt stronger. Everything feels right and yet everything doesn’t. Is this just the reality of collecting more and more places that you call home in your heart? Knowing that if you had the opportunity to experience each home at the same time, layered on top of each other, you’d take it? Or realizing that the world is so big and also so small?

And I’m sure I’ve written this somewhere already, but I’m really taken with this idea that place is people and people are a place and our experiences see them as one. Take a quote from The Vanderbeekers on the Road:

Laney had an encouraging thought: Maybe distance was just a measurement. Maybe it didn’t matter whether her family lived in different states or even opposite coasts. Maybe distance had nothing to do with how much she loved her family or how much they loved her.

We all know this, but the simplicity caught me off-guard, powerful in its statement of fact. All I’d add is that it’s not just people. I think it can be both: people make the place, and as such, our favorite places—what we might call “home”—are charged with the meaning of our own memories. I’m of the belief that we benefit from reunions with people we care for and returns to places that matters to us, but also that we can and do carry both with us, regardless of our physical distance. You might move away, but you don’t have to forget the homes you love. In fact, to try is to probably fail.

To that point, I wonder if home is actually a feeling much like love—that is, what if we started to say that we “feel” home? I’d argue that places and the people and the things and the art that are “home” are those that inspire this supercharged love, anything that offers you joy, peace, perhaps a bit of awe. And so, I cry reading The Vanderbeekers because they are, in a sense, home to me, entangled with and among the people and places that make me whole.

+

That’s all I have for today! I hope you enjoyed. But please do tell: what is home to you today, at this moment? I would love to hear if you’re willing to share. Or tell me what you have planned for the day, as I’m a curious soul. I started this letter on break, but I’ve finished it as I return to work for the summer term, which has in store units on Antigone and devising and final revision for students’ GCSE and A-Level exams! Exciting things.

Until next time,
Bella

P.S. Things I’m Consuming

Media recommendations, round seven! I met someone recently who told me they’re “not very cultured,” and it forced me to think about life without engaging in a consistent rota of films, theatre, books, television, etc. I found it hard, I won’t lie!

+ Fight Night: To cite my own refrain, Miriam Toews’ 2021 novel had me crying (sorry). Chronicling the thoughts and actions of a precocious nine-year-old living with her mom and grandmother, it so joyously speaks to the power of family. I want to read it again.

+ Guys & Dolls: I usually have such little interest in musicals from this era, but I absolutely loved this immersive revival, directed by Nicholas Hynter and currently playing at the Bridge Theatre in London. Their rendition of “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat” felt like a religious experience.

+ Alice Neel: Hot Off the Griddle: I could stare at the work of Alice Neel for hours—there’s something absolutely captivating about her portraits. A retrospective of her work recently opened at the Barbican, and I can’t recommend the exhibition more highly. Attending is absolutely an hour or two (and twenty pounds) well spent.

+ The Quiet Girl: You might recognize The Quiet Girl from its recent Oscar nomination, or perhaps from the novel from which it’s adapted, Claire Keegan’s Foster. Either way, if you haven’t yet seen it, it’s worth a watch—if not for the stunning understated performances of its cast, then certainly for its subtle, sun-dappled cinematography.