Why Seeing Empty Beer Bottles on Sidewalks Reminds Me of Home

Mending the Net, 1881, Thomas Eakins

I want to be doused
in cheese

& fried. I want
to wander

the aisles, my heart's
supermarket stocked high

as cholesterol […].

A few days ago I came across the poem “Ode to the Midwest” by Kevin Young on Poetry Foundation. Born-and-raised a pretentious European, the first few lines came off as rather bizarre: why does this man want to be ‘doused in cheese?’ Are Americans really that stereotypical? To be completely honest with you, I am no poetry expert, so I’m not sure whether it is due to my lack of lyrical knowledge, but when a poem mentions supermarket aisles, cholesterol, and Christmas sweaters, I can’t say I’ll think much of it at first glance.

As I continued to read, I noticed that the tone of the poem was never comical, but rather honest, raw, melancholic even. Despite the peculiar images being described, I felt familiarity and, weirdly enough, a sense of comfort. That’s when I got it: the poet wasn’t trying to make some sophisticated social commentary or satirise the American people, he was just talking about his home, as he knows it, unfiltered and imperfect. For a moment, I felt a touch of sadness when I realised how wrong I was for misjudging the poem. It made me think that this is what “home” is all about. You don’t miss the pretty things that people around the world know about. You miss your vision of it, your experiences and the places where all your memories were made, just the way they are.

As eccentric as this one may seem at first, there’s plenty of other poems that use the same sort of unexpected imagery, all of them rooted in an artistic movement called realism. The central idea of this school of thought was to picture the world as a faithful reflection of reality, and to liberate the arts from romantic dramatization. However, realism is perhaps much more conspicuous in the realm of visual arts, rather than literature. During the 19th century, most painters were looking to “give art back to the people.” ,to separate themselves from the norms imposed by the church and art academies. Owing to the realists, lower strata than before could find a piece that spoke to them on a personal level, that awakened forgotten memories or emotions. For you and me, as for most people back then, it’s much easier to relate to images of working-class fellows doing their daily tasks and finding happiness in some of the most mundane activities (unless you grew up in a castle, I guess). Nowadays, when you’re making your way down the ample corridors of an art museum, it’s most likely that the paintings you’re going to remember most fondly are those that stir up some random personal memory, which may or may not have anything to do with the actual painting. I think the reason why a simple image can flood one’s mind with such intimate visions is we also have a realist way of reminiscing about our past, and especially about our home. We long for the places we used to hang out in and the people we used to see.

Home ranch, Thomas Eakins, 1892

My friend, playing guitar in the pub we used to go to every week, photo by me, 2022

Detail is one of the key aspects of realism, used mostly to ensure the painting’s  verisimilitude. In the context of memories, I choose to interpret this keen attention to elements that may come off as unimportant to some as a reflection of the things that remind us of home. No one in the world, except for close friends or family maybe, will know how you liked to arrange the books on the shelf in your room, the path you used to take from the bus stop to your house, or the bush behind which you secretly threw up on your way home after prom (don’t worry, I won’t tell your mom about it, it’s our secret). A hundred years ago, an artist would show off his roots by painting three modest women harvesting crops on a field; maybe that was his way of saying ‘damn I miss growing up in the countryside’.* And maybe writing about deep fried foods is some poet’s way of looking back to the times he used to share them with his college friends.

Ode to Midwest ends on a desolate note. It seems the author must return to a place he calls ‘home,’ but which clearly isn’t that to him. In the last line, he compares the moon to a lifeless object, the television, which seems to reflect the way he feels about his new place: a cold and barren space, devoid of real emotion. I believe that we shouldn’t limit ourselves to having one ‘home’. After a year or so spent in Milan, with all the amazing people I’ve met and all the great places I’ve discovered, I can confidently call this place a home. My room is crowded with my stuff, the walls are filled with random posters I’ve collected, and the shelves are stacked with books I’ve read – it doesn’t get any homier than this. If you’re asking me, I think ‘home’ is anyplace where you’re truly wanted, whether that be a small apartment in a big city, the house you grew up in or the arms of the person you love.

*I’m referencing The Gleaners by Jean-François Millet