Going Home

With merely two days remaining until I depart Edmonton for my ‘hometown’ of Melbourne, and with the events of the past week still etching deep channels into our emotional landscape, I feel the need to reflect on the significance of home, in both my own life and in the lives of others. Like most people, I was raised to equate home with family. Increasingly, I find myself questioning this association as I become acutely aware of the complexities surrounding the often conflicting pressures of family duty, social mores and the pursuit of an independent life of one’s own creation. 

Understandably we associate home with family because in most cases, our relationship with family was our first experience of home, ideally a safe and welcoming space where we were nurtured and raised amongst those who allowed us to be ourselves. In this process of becoming ourselves, however, we often need to separate from this original space and seek out spaces in which we can explore aspects of self that may not have been supported or nourished by our blood family. Along this journey, many of us find new families, in communities of like-minded people. We are drawn to sporting clubs, academic circles or affiliations that represent a part of our evolving identity. Sometimes we invite our relatives and childhood friends into these newly formed circles, most times not. And in the midst of all this becoming, we are continually searching for some place that fits with who we are, a place where we feel free to be ourselves, a place to call our own. For some sense of home.

Perhaps we mere mortals should turn to nature for some guidance on this question of home. Birds respond to the changing seasons, flying thousands of miles south to build new nests in less hostile environments, only to return to their native lands during springtime. The turtle carries his home with him wherever he goes. The sad irony is that humans pose the greatest threat to animal habitats, as well as their own. As a species, we seem to simultaneously uphold and devalue the sanctity of home, not realising the ways in which we jeopardize our relationships within and with the spaces in which we live.

Many people I know struggle with the loss of this sense of home and despair over the bleak prospect that they might never be able to find it during their lifetime. Sometimes their struggle has tragic consequences, often precipitated or exacerbated by the controlling behaviour of those who are closest to them. I have friends who have been shunned from their family because of their sexuality, left to cope with the lonely reality of no more Christmas and birthday gatherings. Others have faced a loss of home as a result of financial battles with family members or partners. Some of my friends remain unable to trust in the sanctity of home because their childhood home was fraught with abuse and violence.

I am forever grateful that my childhood home was for the most part, a safe place, one in which I felt loved and supported. At the age of 24, I left the family nest to do the back-packer thing in Europe for six months, and upon returning, realised that I could no longer live under my parents’ roof. Throughout my adult life, despite the door being always open for my return (which I did on a couple of occasions), I felt that the space was not my own, it was my parents’ home. The typical rites of passage of finding a partner and an accompanying home mortgage is a mandatory and immediate progression for some, while for others, the prospect of owning a home remains a vision of a future that might never eventuate. The autonomy of adulthood brings with it the dual burdens of expectation and responsibility. For many of my friends, this pressure to demonstrate financial security through ongoing employment or home ownership becomes a heavy weight on their shoulders. For some, the weight brings them to their knees, shattering their self-concept.

one of the 'reclaimed spaces' in my second house

I am one of the lucky ones, having never experienced that degrading sense of failure brought on by issues related to finances. I do recall my father asking me when I was going to become a property owner, as if that would define my entry into adulthood and determine my future stability. He was also wary of my entering into joint ownership with my partner, mainly because he doubted the longevity of non-marital relationships and wanted to protect me from potential conflict arising from the separations. In some ways he was right. My experience of being a property owner over the past 10 years has been one of fluctuating fortunes, having entered into mortgages with two partners, only to end up with minimal financial profit and considerable stress related to buying, selling and being in debt. However, I am grateful that I had the experience of possession and occupation of a physical space in which I could invest my energy, as well as my money. I have always known that the relationships within those four walls are essential to the construction of home. When the relationships break down, the walls crumble. I was able to reclaim spaces for my own, reconstructing a stronger sense of self in the process. Some people are not so successful in this endeavour.

The right to safe shelter and home ownership are explicitly stated in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. If people are denied this fundamental right because of familial or societal conflicts or systemic inequities, then they are denied the preservation of their dignity and the integrity of their selfhood. Faced with limited choices amidst mounting familial, relationship and social pressures, it is little wonder that some people choose ‘death over exile’. It also explains why our communities are populated with those who become desperate and destitute. It is worth bearing in mind that homelessness assumes many forms, not just the stereotypical image of the hobo covered with newspapers who spends the night on your local park bench.  Sometimes being without an authentic sense of home impacts those we least expect and the absence of this sanctuary can have serious and sometimes tragic outcomes. Every individual has the right to feel that they belong somewhere; the right to lay their head on a familiar pillow each night, to have a room of their own in which to reflect, and to feel free to hammer a nail into a wall if they so choose.

‘Home’ by Greg Wilson

On Monday I will temporarily leave this cosy downtown loft, the home created and cherished by my partner and I over the past five months, to return to the home of my parents, having recently sold my second house. This will not be an easy journey, for many reasons. The lyrics of the old Elvis song ring true, “home is where the heart is”. The first present I ever sent to my partner was a miniature wooden jigsaw, with a painting of an Australian landscape, entitled ‘Home’. Back then, I only partially understood the symbolic significance of this gift of home and what it would come to mean for both of us. Home is something I have always taken for granted, while for my partner, home has always occupied a much more tenuous and elusive place in her heart. Fortunately, we have both found in each other, a safe, affirming and liberating relationship, from which a mutual sense of home can be constructed. Some of our friends have not been so fortunate. My heart and this post goes out to them, wherever they may be.