The Home Beneath The House

“Home is where the heart is.” In The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros develops this famous statement to depict what a “home” really represents. What is a home? Is it a house with four walls and a roof, the neighborhood of kids while growing up, or a unique Cleaver household where everything is perfect and no problems arise? According to Cisneros, we all have our own home with which we identify; however, we cannot always go back to the environment we once considered our dwelling place. The home, which is characterized by who we are, and determined by how we view ourselves, is what makes every individual unique. A home is a personality, a depiction of who we are inside and

The speaker reveals that home beat all and that relocation will inevitably lead our heart to long for our original home. To begin, the speaker expresses her feeling of homesickness for the atmosphere of her hometown. She stated that she feels “homesick for the streets unkempt with crowds of people, overfilled…” (4-6) The diction of “homesick” and the utilization of imagery to describe the business of the streets reveal that

I stood in the big pale yellow house that was owned by my mother and my over-cranky step-father. It was a really ancient house even though it wasn’t built to long ago. The strawberry-milk colored shutters were creaky when opened, the paint on the outer part of the mansion like structure was peeling rapidly by the day. The indoor part of the house was the most beautiful, starting off with a BIG parlor, that extended into a long hallway with two bedrooms and a bathroom on each side. It ended into a grand living room with white walls and black carpeting with pictures of family hogging the wall. A big flat-screen TV occupied the far-corner of the living room. At the back of the living room stood a tall marble counter with birch-wood barstools and small wooden cupboards with pots and pans stored within its dark interior. The kitchen itself has a black rug in front of a steel sink with black refrigerator in the back corner with a huge oven alongside it and a microwave installed in the wall next to the freezer. In the living room behind the couch is a staircase that leads down into what seems like eternal darkness but eventually ends into a huge man-cave with a pool table occupying the far corner of the basement. In the other end of the room lies a room with a big beige sofa which is very old, with fluff and

Being in the home was like a separate world, one between life and death. When I reached the outside world again everything seemed so fresh. There were bright yellow-green leaves that hung with an arrogant vivacity, cars that sped by with such fervor, wind blowing with verve and energy, lively children playing with a vivacious lust for life, and the vitality that exudes from the air into your lungs. I wanted to bring this energy into

“What if I don’t like the new house we live in?” I had been living in Taiwan for all my life. My old way of life would soon change. I could still remember the house moving to that new country, America. When I got here, I noticed the flowers, fresh and vibrant, blooming in a distance. I can almost taste the sugary sweet incense in my mouth. I can smell the aroma stemming from the rich atmosphere consisting of beautiful and wild flowers. All the houses had rough roofs compared to all the massive skyscrapers and apartments in Taiwan. The living condition, full of carbon dioxide, is the kind of air quality you get in my hometown. The best part in my homeland, small and dense, is that there tons of people to socialized with. In the neighborhood here, I saw people walking their dogs, playful and energetic, chasing each other. Plain white houses, big and rustic, had narrow and quiet chimneys. The climate, dry and cold, blows down the

Tranquil gusts kissed my skin; the sweet sensation of a breeze and the rustle of the trees’ leaves sung me a lullaby. As I lie, back to my trampoline and limbs sprawled, my mind would undergo a sort of cleansing, ridding me of my troubles. My home held my childhood; it possessed memories that had accumulated from day one, intertwining and condensing them to forge a place that would bear peace and serenity. I never contemplated departure, even when it was apparent my parents sought for a better place to reside, for no place could replace my home. Alas, my assumptions were proven to be erroneous.

Let us see, I could say my life was the All American dream, where mom brings lemonade to the kids, while they harass the dog in the front yard, surrounded by a white picket fence. Or it could be that my life was a fairy tale, one that seems good on the outside but on the inside seemed to me a never ending nightmare. I could go on and on about how good of a life I live, or I could say all the horrible things that have happened, but I’d rather just explain what has shaped me into the person I am today, because that is what a home environment does to a person.

I the proceed to sit down on the worn leather couch. I made sure to sit on the left side, Markus always sat on the right side. I brought the tea up to my lips, the heat flowed through my bones. I gazed at the pictures of me and Markus on the walls. I see our wedding picture from when we were both young, pictures of us dancing and laughing. My desk had piles of cards on it that he wrote to me while he was in the field. There was an unopened one sitting on top. It said “Happy Birthday Darling” on the envelope. I couldn’t bring myself to open it, for it had arrived after his

The poem explores how the home is fundamental to one’s identity and that a person’s notion of home is intact within one’s thoughts even if the scenery or destination changes. The use of the metaphorical language in the line ‘my home which can only stay inside my blood’ highlights that home never leaves one’s identity and is a spiritual entity or quality which is transportable and shelter’s safely in one’s mind. This insightful and intriguing perspective positions the audience to rethink their views on the concept of home and what it entails. This notion is further reinforced in the following example. The use of the evocative imagery in the line ‘ My home which does not fit with any geography’ clearly illuminates that home is inextricably linked to one’s identity as the two are inseparable.

The subject of countless books, movies, poems, and songs, the concept of home is a sundry mix of ideas and ideals. Discussing the image of a childhood home, Grammy Award Winner Miranda Lambert’s hit song “The House That Built Me” has a different take on country music’s love for nostalgia. Many people, specifically young adults and older, can relate to Miranda’s wish of going back to the simplicity and security of childhood, especially after experiencing troubles. This simple, yet rich message is successfully revealed with several rhetorical tools in both the lyrics and accompanying video of “House That Built Me”.

Quiet and unassuming, a modest-looking house lies in the middle of a vast, empty plain, located away from the city and close to the pastoral natural world. Separated from the forceful influences of conformity, but still in touch with the surrounding world, this house is free to think, feel, and experience as it pleases. That’s because this house represents more than the entirety of its physical and visual features; it is a metaphor for my memories, ambitions, secrets, feelings, and emotions.

What is home? Is home simply a house, or is it the ideals, memories, and people that shape a person, and can the lack of a home lead one to voluntarily exile him or herself? Aviezer Tucker, in The Journal of Applied Philosophy, states that “most people spend their lives in search of home, at the gap between the natural home and the particular ideal home where they would be fully fulfilled”. If this is the truth, then cannot feeling as though one is belongs in his or her own home, to completely leave and never look back, to voluntarily exile his or herself from everything he or she has ever known? In Alice Walker’s “Everyday Use” we are dealt this question in the form of two sisters, along with their mother, arguing over what seem in the beginning to be the material things in life. But the deeper one digs, he or she may see that the group of women in “Everyday Use” are instead arguing over the effects of older sister Dee’s voluntary exile. Dee’s exile in “Everyday Use” exhibits a perfect example of someone leaving home in order to better themselves and coming back not so different than they were to begin with.

When you hear the word home what’s the first thing that comes to mind? Is it the street you live on, your family, or the crisp warm smell you get as soon as you take your first step into your house. Everyone knows that home sent that gives you a feeling of relief after a long stress full day. Most people know the saying home is where the heart is. In this case my heart is the field house floor with 9 big blue mats right in the middle of it. As soon as you step foot into the gym you have your game face on and are ready to push your self past your limits and strive for more and better success. When you walk into the field house the first thing you notice is the rubbery smell coming from the ground mixed with all kinds of cleaning supplies as the forceful wind pushes through the doors when you take your first step into

The world and its great variety of places have had an impact on my life, but only one has turned me into the person I am today. My home, Zapzalka Farms, is the foundation of my life. Who would have thought a small farm just four miles north of the little town called Bowlus would teach a young man so many valuable lessons about working hard and strong moral values? Looking in from the driveway, I see the house where I grew up, the two story structure composed of 115 year old crusty yellow concrete brick surrounded by flower beds and 50 foot cedar trees. This house has helped me through everything, from birthday parties as a child, to writing Comp papers as a student, I do not know where I would be without it. As I make my way down the driveway surrounded by seven foot cornfields like a mouse searching its

My grandfather’s house was an army green color, not a normal color for a house. When we would drive up to my grandfather’s house the first thing I would see is a yellow sign with an arrow indicating it was a one-way street, it was hung on the gate before you enter the driveway. Every time I would get out of the car, I remember the path that led up to his backyard. The pathway was filled with freshly planted flowers on both sides, as I walk towards the end of the pathway, on the left, a big space filled with grass, trees, and more flowers. On the right, is a door to get into a mud room before entering the house. My grandfather had the most beautiful garden. He planted fruits and vegetables. On my visits, I would sit in the backyard with him and we would walk around his garden. We picked pears off the tree, and he would tell me stories about his late wife. How much he loved her and missed her dearly. “That’s where you get your name from”, he tells