A Fontaines D.C. track titled “Romance” speculates that “maybe romance is a place / for me and you” – and, with those lyrics, my day was off to a rough start. If it had not been for “Favourite” at the end, I probably would have abandoned the whole thing out of fear. “Romance” is a lovely song, by all means, beautifully executed, but the notion of connecting romantic relationships with a place scares me beyond bounds––beyond borders, even.
However, nothing scares me to the point of silence. As an international student, I am constantly searching for connections, resonances, and even rhymes between myself and the homes I inhabit. But can I maintain a healthy relationship with either of my homes? Or will I abandon places with the same speed with which I abandon romance?
Love and the Homeland
Many songs released recently are riddled with romantic expressions attached to the homeland. Bad Bunny’s “DtMF”, Fontaines D.C.’s “I Love You”, and Carson Coma’s “Feldobom a Követ” all conflate romantic relationships and ethnic/national identity. They incorporate a push-and-pull dynamic of belonging and abandonment, yet ultimately underscore the artists’ devotion to their country of origin. But what if such a relationship has deteriorated to the point of nearly no return? And what can you do if you find yourself hopelessly attached to the word nearly? Would you go above and beyond to restore the relationship with your home, or would you look for another?
Hungary and I are a tempestuous pair. When I moved to Munich at age 15, I was told by everyone that I belonged to a Western country, and, to an extent, they were right. I would have never found my passion for English literature if I had stayed in Hungary, and I would not have done so much as visit Oxford. Now, the prospect of a life in Hungary seems unimaginable to me. But, even so, I cannot exactly call Munich home, and I never could. I struggled with social and cultural integration in Germany. I am way more inclined to call Tatabánya my home, although the chances of reuniting are very slim. Nevertheless, such instances of uncertainty and ambiguity need not send us down into a spiral of despair; we can free ourselves from the compulsion of pinning down a single country, a single home, and explore other options across (or in-between) cultures.
To my greatest delight, one border between Hungary and Austria is situated in Hegyeshalom, a town neatly rhyming with “home.” Hegyeshalom is where my family and I cross the border on our journey from Munich to Tatabánya––I hold this place very close to my heart. The rhyme between these two words captures my sense of being an international student perfectly: I cannot inhabit a single country therefore I must live on their boundaries. This synchronicity, on the one hand, is terrifying, as it destabilises my national identity; on the other hand, however, it is an endless source of creativity. I need not work with unities, as I do not belong to any, but I am constantly alert to fragments of home wherever I go.
Love and the Fragments
The orthodoxy of unity is one I avoid like the plague. Pretentious as it may sound, poststructuralism was truly the highlight of my first-year studies; these theorists focused on peripheral elements disrupting established structures of meaning and effectively deconstructed perceived unities into ideological fragments. What is of relevance here is the liberty of constructing your own cross-cultural self across boundaries which may at first seem unbridgeable. In other words, your identity does not have to be defined by a single thing or a single culture. You can (and many times should) embrace the multitude of cultural experiences that shape who you are. Even if those connections are somewhat unorthodox (England and Hungary have fewer links than I would like), you are free to draw your own parallels and build your own bridges between multiple homelands. Here, I am trying to synchronise romance and belonging by connecting England, Hungary, and Germany through the music of an Irish band––if I can do this, so can you.
One approach to such self-construction may stem from emotional ties. Love is the inevitable, unavoidable curse and blessing upon mankind, so you may as well make good use of it. Here, I have to note my privilege and recognise that this approach is not applicable to everyone, especially if one has been the target of institutionalised discriminatory practices. I am speaking to those whose relationship with their country of origin is less oppressive, and more resonant with the romance–place parallel: to those who may share in my fear that “maybe romance is a place for me and you.”
The expectation to love each and every bit of a romantic partner with equal intensity is an unrealistic one. Similarly, neither of my homes have truly become the love of my life. Tatabánya is murky, boring, and difficult to get around effectively without a driver’s licence. Munich is more vibrant, but I do not speak German, did not have a great time in secondary school, and only one bookshop carries a wide selection of English literature. Oxford simply confuses me: I still cannot do beans in the morning, I have not mastered the art of English small talk, and I am slowly accepting defeat against the never-ending chain of allusions in the literature I read every week. But carrying resentment and relentless negativity will only perpetuate the toxic cycle of rejecting yourself from the place that is supposed to be a (temporary) home. To contradict that, let me walk you through some lyrics from the Romance album in an effort to recognise the lovable aspects of my homes.
“I feel your pain / it’s mine as well” –– “Here’s The Thing.” My family and community have never failed to make me feel at home in Tatabánya. I get to speak my native tongue and share a similar understanding of cultural and social phenomena as the people around me (which does not always happen in England). My English friends will graciously listen to me while I rant about domestic abuse, the criminal underrepresentation of women in political establishments or the covert ethnic segregation of white and gypsy children in primary education, but my Hungarian friends empathise. My mother will refer me to articles and video essays on various subjects, and we navigate our perceptions of public figures and events together. Their perspectives resonate with mine, and suddenly I am not just talking but engaging. I am home because I am heard.
“It’s so hard to find you” –– “Desire.” “Desire” is abstract enough to encompass human relationships and theological conflicts about the conceptualisation of God and Christ, so the connections I draw are by no means authoritative or singular. The song builds on notes of ambiguity––“I see them driving into nothing, where nothing is sure” ––resembling my experience of studying English at Oxford. Not having had 13 years of English language, literature, and history education does alienate me in that I feel the pressure of having to do extra reading to position myself on equal footing as my peers. Nevertheless, my often-confused search for meaning often produces a more fruitful result than I would have expected. I thrive in the exploration of more abstract concepts, such as river imagery in Pope’s Windsor-Forest and Denham’s Cooper’s Hill, even if I struggle with 17th-and 18th-century English politics. I would never have written my article on Milton’s Chaos for The Blue, had it not been for a spontaneous moment of creativity I latched onto in a state of general confusion. My life in England is a constant search for meaning, and as a literature student, I could not be more grateful. I am home because I can read.
“Silent as the feeling / That I’ve promised you” –– “Bug.” My love for Munich is so silent I can barely hear it among the hate, but I am not one to hold a grudge for too long. Moving to Munich, I promised everyone, but mainly myself, that I would treat this journey as a privilege and never let myself slip into self-sabotage out of sheer spite. Halfway through my degree now, I thank 17-year-old me for not skipping school out of fear and for working towards her goals no matter the constant anxiety tying little knots in her stomach. A very dear English teacher of mine set me on the path towards Oxford, and although I called him stupid, I made a promise, unknowingly, that I would do the utmost to get into this university. Retrospectively, each word I noted down, the feedback I responded to, and each hour I spent revising were little acts of promise. I have to love Munich for sheltering me and for being the home of a very important and necessary transition from Tatabánya to Oxford. Without Munich, without the promises I made there, I would not be here. Munich and I were never meant to be, but I promised to show up and be the best version of myself at that time because I knew the transition would be worth it. Truthfully, I am still on a journey to find fragments of Munich I can appreciate besides this transitory aspect, but I am happy to have battled the relentless hate I have held for that place. I am home because I am healing.
Love (and) Yourself
“You were my favourite for a long time” –– “Favourite.” The only reason why I am not considering getting this one tattooed is because it is already ingrained in my brain. I hardly need to reiterate my diverse toxic relationships with places: I do not value Tatabánya enough; Oxford and I are caught in a loop of desiring and rejecting each other, while I am also healing patterns of mistreatment and miscommunication with Munich. But in all these places and dynamics, I am the constant, I am the one thing I can control (“Wait For It” reference if anyone recognised it). I do not have power over the conditions of my homes, but I can choose to interact with them in the healthiest way possible.
Romance can be a place once I commit to spending quality family time in Tatabánya because that is an aspect I will always love. Munich is filled with interesting cafés and thrift stores I would not find in my hometown. What else could a writer ask for? Oxford is strange and confusing but if I decide to face every one of its terrifying or intimidating aspects, I can regain my courage and confidence. After all, there has been a time when I felt inadequate for student journalism, and now I cannot seem to stop writing.
So, what makes somewhere “home”? My simple answer is interaction. Places have the potential to become your home, but you must tap into it, and that act must come from the heart. Hate can blind us and keep us from recognising that our homes may have been our favourites for a long time, each for their own individual quirks and memories.