flavours of home
so many ways of relating to each other and home.
The sun has come out these past few days, pushing the British gloom out of the way—even if only temporary. Winter feels like a distant dream and summer is so close, so tempting, within arms reach. I imagine the picnics to come, South park sunsets, day trips, flowers, sitting (no, lying) on forbidden freshly trimmed grass. Green of different shades.
But in the freshness and lack of strict routine that comes with finishing classes, my thoughts wander in the field of my imagination. I cannot focus on my work in this beautiful weather so instead, I daydream and reflect. The sun reminds me of home and I think about how past summers have felt; each of them in my recent memory have been spent in a different place and were laced with the transience of my leaving…
New relationships formed and put on hold to be revisited when (if) I’m back, some relationships shifting into a digital space, other relationships I may never feel again—at least not in the near future. I always get so attached to the people a place brings me that leaving becomes so hard. Summer, in ways, has just and hasn’t yet begun, as some students have finished their examinations while others are pushing through them. Even though it is only May, I am already thinking about what it must feel like come August when I move out of my student residence and return home.
People are asking me more and more frequently, “are you staying here over the summer?”, “you’re leaving soon, right?”, “how do you feel about going back?” Most of my friends here would be moving out of their college’s residence only to move into a house or a different building somewhere in Oxford, anticipating the classes, formals, bops, and research to come. How I would miss this place, the beautiful bubble of glimmering balls and buildings soon to be popped—but more so the community I’ve built. And once the bubble is popped, I am thrown across the ocean from my people. I feel that I have done simultaneously nothing (not enough) and everything (that I’d never be able to experience at home). How I’ve planted roots this year only to have them ripped from the earth before the flowers have fully bloomed.
Interestingly, as I’ve spent more time here, I notice the juxtaposition of this city being a place of respite from the North American hustle for many (including me, admittedly) while also being a place of immense opportunity for others. Some treat their degrees here as a gap year before beginning [insert professional school] and so there is debate as to whether their degrees actually matter; some use it as a first step towards settling in the UK or out of their home countries. As a young academic, I recognize it’s obviously a huge privilege to be able to study at different institutions and live in different cities—with always a solid home base to land when I need a warm bowl of my mom’s pork bone broth and my dad’s ma po tofu. In this vibrant international community, I’ve met so many people with different associations towards ‘home’ and I always find it interesting when someone mentions they do not intend to return to their home country. And while I am here wishing I had a longer time here and away from home, others are longing to go home… So many flavours1 of home.
The person I’ve recently started dating (rough timing am I right?) calls South Africa home. He describes home with ‘family, the people, the diverse music culture, rhythm that everyone has, the food culture, the weather, the smell after it rains, the nature, dangerous wildlife and just how unique the place is’ (this was a text way back and I have since only become more enamoured by his mind). Something we both agree on is that home means food. He says he misses home.
In London, there is a shop near St. Pancras Train Station that sells South African foods. He told me about it, and so on my commute to my dissertation field site, I stop by and pick up some rusks, biltong, and chips (BBQ beef flavour) for us to try when we next see each other. Or, for me to try and for him to indulge, memories of home hopefully surfacing into his mind with each bite.
And recently, we cooked together—not to romanticize (but to romanticize) the closeness felt when sharing a homecooked meal with someone. After a Tesco run, chopping onions and peppers, mixing maize and water, listening to music, watching iconic South African advertisements (why are they so deep, like who decides these plots???), we found ourselves munching on hearty plates of pap, chakalaka, and juicy pork at midnight. We talked about how South African Braais compare North American Barbeques and Chinese Shao Kao. Fingers licked clean, I am left savouring this experience of home-away-from home through food, craving to taste it again. And the nourishment that comes with sharing.
- jas <3
