On Going Home Joan Didion

English 101 “On Going Home” Joan Didion In Joan Didion’s “On Going Home,” she describes a time when her two distinctions of “home” collide-- as she brings her husband to the place she grew up in. Didion describes that where she is settled, with her husband and daughter, it is simply a replica of the real and pure version of her “home,” which is back with her family in California. As she strolls aimlessly around the home she was once sheltered in, she is well aware that her husband has no knowledge of the significance of the symbols in the house whatsoever. He is therefore considered an outsider-- someone she had just brought along for a ride he was not ready for. Didion carries on to explain how at one point while in her childhood home, she pulls out a box filled with nostalgic mementos. She’s overwhelmed with emotion as she looks through it endlessly, finding clothing, photographs, hand crafted tea cups with her grandmother's initials, and much more. When she visits her great-aunt's, reality hits her harder than she expected when she realizes that they had become senile-- given that they did not even remember who she was. Her trip back home makes it clear that no matter how far she goes, and no matter how much conflict and tension she experienced, home is where the heart is-- and it is with her family. Many individuals can agree that growing up with mothers, fathers, siblings and/or grandparents almost your entire life was mostly composed of laughter, tears, disagreements, and days where “family” did not feel like family at all. One tends to grow up and fail to realize that the bundle of mixed emotions and memories they call “family” was something significant and needed in their life-- until they’ve grown out of their shell, living with a brand new family they created from scratch, and registering the fact that they aren’t the seventeen-year-old teen who got yelled at by their parents for being on their phone at the dinner table anymore. Family is something irreplaceable-- and it isn’t realized until you look at the house from the outside. Growing up with 3 sisters, conflict, emotion, and tension were my family’s last name. My father was out of the picture when I was only seven, and my grandmother moved in as she came from Pennsylvania. Being the youngest of four meant that arguments and fights were inevitable, and having six girls in a one-bathroom house was not so fun either. As I grew up, insults were thrown and tears were shed-- because there were days when we would all go too far with our words. Regardless and at the end of the day, this is my family; And I would not want to go through the deepest depths of hell with anyone else. As I got older, I began to realize that family isn’t supposed to be smiles and laughter every day. There were times when my mother would come home from work, tired from standing the entire day, and when she found plates and/or cups in the sink the entire house would soon be filled with her loud voice. There would be days where my sisters and I did not get along, words were yelled out at the top of our lungs, hands were thrown, and the silent treatment became a part of our daily schedules. After my father left, there would constantly be arguments on whether we were allowed to visit him or not, especially because of his wrong doings. There were days where we would all go out for a ride to the mall or a party and we wouldn’t last 5 minutes without starting up an argument. Nevertheless, our good days always overpowered the bad ones. All throughout high school, I met plenty of people who originated from different cultures. My household screams “modern” with just a touch of hispanic culture. My family is of Puerto Rican descent; we talk a certain way, sing a certain way, dance, cook, we even clean in a certain way. You name it, we have a twist on it. Having friends who are from different cultures ( African, Muslim, Indian, etc.) made my high school years way more interesting. Hanging out with them meant experiencing an entirely different culture from mine, eating different foods, listening to different music, and so much more. When I was five years old, me and my family took a trip to the Dominican Republic to visit my father’s side of relatives. It was much more different from our home and lifestyle back in New York, the streets were different-- having two or more kids playing soccer (or football, for some odd reason) barefoot on each corner, the streets being the home of motorcycles-- and motorcycles only, and the aroma of barbecues constantly filled the air-- even during the dead hours of the night. When I was younger, my grandmother lived in Lancaster, Pennsylvania before moving in our home. My family would often drive up there to visit her and sleep over for a couple of days before returning back to New York. While we were there, the environment was hands-down entirely different from ours back home. To start off, she lived in a suburban area, while we lived in the city. Not one apartment was seen and that was quite rare for us-- given that apartments are in every street and corner in NYC. The streets were spotless, the grass was fresh and green, the trees were full and bright, and the entire environment felt welcoming and safe-something I cannot quite say about New York. After my grandmother moved in with us, she always told stories about life in PA, how nice people were and how safe she felt. It made me realize that the distinctions between my home and the home she once lived in were huge. Joan Didion does not fail to express her thoughts as she described how different her new life was from the one she had in California. Her trip back home pulled on her heart strings greatly, as she makes it clear that it will never matter where she goes and for how long she detaches herself from her family, she will always find her way back home.