There and Back Again

For most people, January seems like an endless month, its 31 days feeling more like 91. For me, especially now that it is my summer vacation, it passes quickly, leaving February as the month that seems to drag on, short as it is in reality. When I lived in Boston, February was the bleakest month of the winter, with gray mounds of snow, puddles of brown ice and slush, and early afternoon darkness consuming all memories of warmth, cheer and anything green and alive. Now, living in South America, February brings quite the opposite complaints--oppressive heat and humidity, broken up by violent thunderstorms with hailstones and flooding. I'm still grateful that my February days no longer involve shoveling snow or slipping on uncleared sidewalks in a gray, muddy gloom. I won't allow myself to complain about the heat, although sometimes I find myself desperate for some cool, moving air and wonder why I bother taking a shower if I start to sweat as soon as I get out.

February is the start of the school year, which brings new projects and endeavors and the excitement that comes with them. It means new students and new books, and trying to get back to a routine of exercise and healthy eating before the semester gets overwhelming. It also means that vacation is over (at least until Carnival and several long weekends that break up the semester). 

I usually spend the end of December and the first half of January in the United States, visiting family and friends. My Instagram stories during that time show falling snow and comfort food and snapshots of things I make with my nieces. Although I've usually had more than enough winter, it's always a bittersweet readjustment to say goodbye to loved ones, dill pickles, Thai food, museum romps, art nights, and to come back to São José where I never quite fit the padrão. And yet, I have work to invest in here, and, for now, this is where I belong.

While in the United States, I always stock up on things that are either not found or are extremely expensive here--pipe cleaners, good peanut butter, certain kinds of candy and tea, art supplies, vitamins, and a number of other things. When I first started traveling back to the U.S., I judged Brazilians who wanted me to carry back perfume and brand-name items for them. But while the typical consumer items most people crave don't excite me, I have started to realize my own materialism. Did I become more materialistic after moving abroad? I sometimes feel like I need to buy certain things every time I'm back in town, only because I can, knowing I can't find them when I'm back in Brazil. Or, is my materialism just more obvious because I now have to quantify it in suitcases and bags, pounds and kilos?

Many folks are cleaning out stuff using Maria Kondo's method of tidying up, "If it doesn't spark joy, get rid of it." This is certainly a different cultural approach that Westerners like me can learn from.  I find myself, however, stuffing my suitcases twice a year with things that spark joy--in myself and in others. It may be some maker materials that are hard to find in Brazil. It may be crispy rice cereal that later becomes an ingredient for American treats that my friends and my students enjoy. Or card stock and markers so that I can brighten people's day with a caricature or a funny cartoon. Or books, magazines, postcards, stickers and even erasers that show a glimpse of American culture to my students. Maybe it's magnetic poetry that allows students to express some thoughts in English. Or a Trader Joe's maple cookie or bag of spicy dried mangoes that satisfies a mid-semester craving. Or even a Star Trek toy that reminds me of my childhood and travels to events with me to train teachers in the maker movement. There are many things that spark joy, and I am grateful for the opportunity to tank up on my home culture twice a year, and bring parts of it back here.

So, now that I'm back home in Saint Joseph of the Fields, I'm organizing my art, maker, and teaching materials, and, one bit at a time, passing on or discarding things that no longer serve a purpose or bring joy. Now that I'm doing more work from home, I'm striving (and struggling) to maintain a visually clean, joy-inducing environment where I can be more productive. That often involves pieces of my North-American identity. Sometimes it takes the form of artwork that resulted from collaboration with friends in the U.S., which now hangs on my wall to inspire me to do more. Sometimes it's something special that I keep in my classroom to share with students and start interesting conversations. Other times, it's a gift for someone else, or something tasty that I share (or neglect to share) with my husband.

It brings a sense of pride and joy to have objects from my grandparents' house and images of Northeastern beauty in my home, or to be able to offer guests something special to eat or drink that came from my home country. It brings comfort to look up from my work and see the mountains on one side and a Klingon guarding my English books on the other. I'm still learning how to balance a life and an identity in two countries, and have lots to learn about minimizing clutter, but for now, I am glad for these connections. It's a rare and sweet thing to have tales of two (or three) cities, and to get to go there and back again, connecting adventures, struggles, and joys from two places I call home. How does your history affect your present? What objects bring you joy, and how do you manage them? Where is your "there," and what does it feel like to go or come back? Share your February stories, from the north or south, or both.