English

In The Ecological Thought, Timothy Morton argues that "Fixation on place impedes a truly ecological view," that "we want ecology to be about location, location, location. In particular, location must be local: it must feel like home; we must recognize it and think it in terms of the here and now, not the there and then" [but that] "ecological collectivity decisively can’t be rooted in 'place'....'my place in the sun' marks the beginning of all usurpation. 'Place' contains too much “at-homeness,” too much finality, for the ecological thought. Localism, nationalism, and immersion in the ideological bath of the lifeworld, won’t cut it anymore…We need collectivity, not community….it must be a collectivity of weakness, vulnerability, and incompletion."

What do you think? Post here a paragraph of your initial reactions to Morton’s idea, reflecting, from the p.o.v. of an environmentalist, on your own investments in and search for home. We’ll start class on Wednesday with these thoughts….PLEASE USE THE ECO-LITERACY TAG  "English" on these postings.

    “Home is where the heart is,” so said Pliny the Elder. Home need not consist of a physical place, a city or location one can visit or the material structure in which a person grew up or currently inhabits. Rather, home comes to exist more as an emotion, a feeling of belonging and comfort, of safety and welcome, a space–be it physical or mental–one can claim as one’s own. However, when asked to describe home and what it means to me I find myself grappling to identify one single physical location, thinking of the houses in which I have lived (four in total, though only three of which I honestly remember), my dorm rooms this and last semester, the three states and four cities I have inhabited. In each of those places I can clearly picture my house (or the dorm building), my room, the environment just outside, the people and rooms and structures nearby, and I almost feel compelled to identify one as unequivocally home. The problem is, when I really consider home, which in itself is quite a charged word loaded with myriad connotations, nothing stands out as my one true home. I can talk ad naseaum about the different places in which I lived at one point or another, and I can turn right around and launch into a discussion about how home need not be a place but can instead take the form of people or feelings or smells or air temperatures or the taste of the tap water.

Shamial Ahmad

ENG 216: Re-Creating Our World

January 25th, 2014

Home and Belonging

            ‘”Where are you from?””  This question no matter how often it may be asked of me always throws me off a little bit. Where am I, Shamial as a person from? Well, that could be a lot of places. I could be from the city that never sleeps, the concrete jungle that replaced my parents native land of Pakistan when they migrated to the United States. I could say I’m from New York City since that was where I was born. OR perhaps I could even say I’m from down south. Andalusia, Alabama, my home for 5 years; population 9,000.  My most distinct memory of Alabama was the pond in our backyard that I would throw things in my when parents weren’t looking. There was just something appealing to 5 year old Shamial seeing rocks, sticks, and one time my Juicy Juice juice box, be at the  top of the pond and then sink to the bottom.  And the most wonderful swing I had hanging for a large tree in our front yard.  I also vividly remember that tree having fallen on top of our garage when Hurricane Opal came through. We moved a little after that.

Many of my friends envision bright futures for themselves living in cities like DC or Boston, or Madrid or London, working for non-profits or law firms or architecture companies during the day, and exploring the sleek streets by night. A good existence to be sure. 

But when I shut my eyes and imagine where I’d like to be, I conjure up images of a yurt placed softly on harsh fields of tundra and dark basalt, a delicate scent of ocean intermingling with the perfume of anticipation as rock and soil emanate that one smell only found right before it rains. The sky is lightly grey and overcast, but not without light or warmth. My fingers feel slightly cold while my cheeks are warm with mild windburn, lungs invigorated as they sip fresh cool atmosphere. My booted feet move with the excitement of places unknown, almost dancing as they tread rhythmically across the land. Exploration calls, and my smile widens. Now if only the leafy greens, avocado tree, and fresh strawberries I also imagine planting in that cool damp earth could flourish as much as my hopeful dreams… Potatoes it is.

Home and Belonging

I am from stacks of books

From hiking boots and oversized raincoats

I am from the high desert,

the scent of fresh air and dog and cat hair.

I am from the mountains and rivers,

the juniper trees

whose limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I am from PBS and NPR,

from Vietnamese music videos

from 52 cousins, laughter, and loud Irish Catholic family reunions.

I am from public libraries, hikes and bike rides.

I am from “Orygun not Ore-gone”

and the wisdom I have admired in my older brother

I am from Monopoly and “Jungle School”

from Oregon and Ireland

from my grandfather’s photos

and the diary entries stored under my bed.