Explanatory essays - The Power of Knowle: Essays That Explain the Important Things in Life - Sykalo Eugene 2025

Cross-Cultural Perspectives on the Concept of Home and Belonging
Comparative literature and cross-cultural analysis

Let’s start with The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. God, this book. It’s not a novel, not really—it’s more like a necklace of vignettes, each one a bead that glints with its own kind of ache. Esperanza, the narrator, is a Mexican-American kid in Chicago, stuck in this rundown house that’s nothing like the dream home she imagines. The way Cisneros writes about it, home isn’t just a place; it’s a bruise, a hope, a thing you carry and can’t quite set down. I read it in one sitting years ago, on a bus ride that felt too long, and I remember feeling like Esperanza was sitting next to me, whispering about her street, her neighbors, her hunger for something more. It’s raw, you know? Not the kind of raw where it’s trying to shock you, but the kind where you feel the pavement under your feet, the weight of a name you didn’t choose.

Now, jump across the world to The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. This one’s heavier, like wading through a river of molasses. Roy’s Kerala is lush and suffocating, a place where “home” is less about a house and more about family ties that choke you as much as they hold you. The twins, Rahel and Estha, are caught in this web of caste, history, and secrets—God, the secrets in that book are like termites eating away at everything. I kept thinking about how Roy makes “home” feel like a trap you love and hate at the same time. Like, you ever go back to a place you grew up in and feel like you’re betraying it just by leaving? That’s what this book does to you. It’s not just India; it’s any place where memory and belonging get tangled up in ways you can’t untie.

Okay, hold on. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s slow down and talk about A House for Mr Biswas by V.S. Naipaul. This one’s a beast, sprawling and stubborn, like a house that’s falling apart but refuses to collapse. Mr. Biswas, this Trinidadian man of Indian descent, spends his whole life chasing a house of his own. It’s not just about bricks and mortar—it’s about dignity, about proving you exist in a world that keeps trying to erase you. I’ll be honest, there were moments I wanted to shake Biswas, like, “Dude, chill, it’s just a house!” But then I’d catch myself, because haven’t we all chased something that feels like it’ll make us whole? Naipaul’s got this way of making you laugh and wince at the same time, like he’s holding up a mirror to your own dumb dreams.

What’s wild is how these books—Mexican-American, Indian, Trinidadian—talk to each other without ever meeting. They’re all obsessed with “home” as this thing you can’t quite grab. For Esperanza, it’s about escaping a place that defines her too tightly. For Rahel and Estha, it’s about being haunted by a home that’s both paradise and prison. For Mr. Biswas, it’s about building something solid in a world that keeps shifting under his feet. I mean, who even gets to have a home without fighting for it? And why does it feel like the fight never ends?

Let’s pivot to something older, because I’m curious about how this idea of home stretches back. The Odyssey by Homer—yeah, I know, it’s ancient, but hear me out. Odysseus is the OG wanderer, trying to get back to Ithaca after years of war and monsters and gods messing with him. Home, for him, is this beacon: Penelope, his son, his island. But when you read it, you realize home isn’t just a place—it’s a story he tells himself to keep going. I was reading this in a coffee shop once, surrounded by people tapping away on laptops, and I kept thinking, “Are we all just Odysseus, chasing some version of Ithaca we’ve built up in our heads?” It’s not just about getting there; it’s about what “there” even means when you’ve been gone so long.

But here’s where it gets messy. Home isn’t always a warm fuzzy. In Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, home is a village, a culture, a way of life—and it’s under siege. Okonkwo’s Igbo world is his everything, but it’s also a cage of tradition, masculinity, and pride. When colonialism creeps in, it’s not just his hut that’s threatened; it’s the whole idea of what “home” means. I remember reading this and feeling this knot in my chest, because Achebe doesn’t let you look away from the cost of losing your place in the world. It’s not just about land or houses—it’s about the stories, the language, the rituals that make you you. Lose those, and what’s left?

I’m sitting here, flipping through my dog-eared copies, and I keep circling back to this: home is never just one thing. It’s a physical place, sure, but it’s also memory, identity, the people you love, the people you can’t stand. It’s the street you grew up on, the language you speak, the accent you can’t shake. These books get that. They don’t give you answers—they give you questions, sharp ones, that stick in your skin like splinters.

Let’s talk about The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan for a second. This one’s personal. My mom gave me her copy when I was a teenager, pages yellowed, spine cracked. It’s about Chinese-American mothers and daughters, and the way “home” is this fractured thing split between two worlds. The mothers carry China in their bones—its myths, its ghosts—but the daughters are American, caught in this in-between space. I read it and felt like Tan was reading my mail, you know? That push-pull of belonging nowhere and everywhere at once. It’s not just a Chinese-American thing; it’s anyone who’s ever felt like they’re straddling two lives, trying to build a home out of pieces that don’t quite fit.

What’s hitting me now is how these stories—spanning continents, eras, cultures—keep circling the same truth: belonging is work. It’s not a given. You don’t just have a home; you make it, fight for it, lose it, rebuild it. And sometimes, you don’t even know what it looks like until it’s gone. I think about Esperanza dreaming of a house that’s hers, or Okonkwo clinging to a village that’s slipping away, or Odysseus sailing toward an Ithaca that might not even exist anymore. They’re all reaching for something that feels solid, but it’s like grabbing at smoke.

I could keep going—there’s Brooklyn by Colm Tóibín, where Eilis Lacey leaves Ireland for New York and finds “home” is a tug-of-war between two continents. Or The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri, where Gogol’s name is a home he doesn’t want but can’t escape. But I’m not trying to write an encyclopedia here. I’m just trying to figure out why these stories make my chest tight, why they feel like they’re talking to each other across time and space.

Look, I don’t have a tidy takeaway. I’m not going to sit here and tell you “home is where the heart is” or some bumper-sticker nonsense. These books don’t let you off that easy. They make you sit with the mess—the way home can be a refuge, a prison, a ghost, a dream, all at once. I keep thinking about how I moved five times in the last ten years, each time thinking this place would feel like home. Spoiler: it never quite does. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe home isn’t a place you find—it’s a story you tell yourself, a story you keep rewriting.

So, yeah, I’m sitting here with my coffee gone cold, these books scattered around me, and I’m wondering: what’s your home? Is it a place? A person? A memory you can’t shake? Read these books. They won’t tell you what home is, but they’ll make you feel it—the weight, the ache, the beauty of it. And maybe that’s enough.