“The Road to Home”

By: Heather Bossé

“You are leaving for another trip?”

“Where are you going now?”

“For how long?! You must be looking for something.”

These countless comments I endured prior to leaving for New Zealand showcase a glimpse

of womanhood. As women, we quickly learn the art of apologizing: for persisting, for pursuing,

and for existing. Being a mother of three young children, I am pressured to apologize vigorously.

One should not abandon her husband to watch his offspring, one should not put herself before

another, one should not look anywhere but home for fulfillment and identity, one should not look

to the waters of the world in search of a true reflection. Of course, this only applies if you are a

woman.

Wanderlust is the fuel that propels my creativity and spirituality. Moving through

landscape and allowing it to move through me is necessary to self-understanding. Thus, landscape

impacts the stages of my life. It forms the framing of the human interpretation of beauty and it

defines cultural norms with society. In his essay “The Temporality of the Landscape,” Tim Ingold

writes, “Meaning is there to be discovered in the landscape, if only we knew how to attend to it.

Every feature, then, is a potential clue, a key to meaning rather than a vehicle for carrying it.” The

landscapes of the Deep South, the American Southwest, and New Zealand have impacted my

interpretation of beauty and the basis of my identity.

I. Landscape as a prison – Deep South, United States

If you are a Southerner, to know kudzu is to despise it. Almost everyone south of the

Mason-Dixon line would agree, except me. Kudzu is an invasive species of perennial vine that

climbs and trails over things both natural and manufactured. Kudzu’s luscious green vine sprouts

trifoliate leaves that are fuzzy to the touch despite an appearance of smoothness. Growing almost

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a foot a day, a mature vine can age into a thick, woody texture. Kudzu twists and curls, enveloping

whatever falls into its path. It begins by highlighting the silhouettes within nature but quickly

evolves into an oppressor. The weight and strength of the vines and leaflets eventually smother

other botanical species, robbing them of natural light. Found primarily in the Southeast parts of

the United States, kudzu was originally brought to the States from Japan and lauded for its ability

to prevent soil erosion. While it is successful in that endeavor, it also grows, spreads, and multiplies

quite quickly. Kudzu is difficult to exterminate; Even burning the plant does not guarantee its

elimination.

My family attended three services of church a week: Sunday morning, Sunday night, and

Wednesday night. My brother and I were expected to sit still as statues throughout the hours of

preaching and acapella singing. If we were good (meaning, if my brother chose not to be defiant),

we sometimes would stop at the corner convenience store on the way home after service. Mom

would allow us each a $1. Every trip was an internal debate over a Coke or candy. Would Sweetarts

win out over a Cherry Coke? Rail-thin with the sweetest tooth in my family, I usually picked the

candy. Dad slowly drove our gold Camry down St. Joseph’s Street, windows down and unhurried

by the speed limit. The sky was navy with a tint of lavender and the fireflies blinked on and off,

on and off. The ever-present humidity made my skin sticky and cool. Classic rock or country music

filled the car with enough noise to avoid conversations, each of us lost in our thoughts or worries.

We lived in the city, but the South is filled with vegetation – pockets of woods and farmland

sprinkled throughout town. Before we made the turn on our street, there was a quarter mile patch

of woods that bordered undeveloped pastures. The trees were tall and lush, draped by living and

breathing kudzu. A canopy of shadowy imagination bloomed under the strength and defiance of

this invasive species. A majority of my childhood philosophical musing occurred on this stretch

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of road, gazing at the canopy. How did the moon follow our car so quickly as it rose in the night

sky? How could a God that loves all of his children cast some of them to eternal damnation? Who

created God? Why do I often feel out of my body? What makes me ‘me’ and why do I often feel

misplaced in the scheme of it all?

Growing up in Alabama, I frequently heard diatribes against kudzu or as country farmers

would call it: “that devil weed.” They would accuse it of having a mind of its own, of rebuking the

course of nature, and using it to its own benefit. Imagine the looks I got when I would exclaim

“But isn’t it beautiful because of those things? Or despite them?” Kudzu is a smothering beauty,

at once confining and conflicting. It evokes a romantic Southern gothic feel, plucked from pages

of Faulkner’s notebook. It grows delicately and drapes itself over the objects of man like telephone

poles, abandoned cars, and derelict shacks. Symbolically, kudzu represents independence,

strength, and atypical beauty. It thrives despite the surroundings that try to suppress it.

I grew up in a small Southern town, known for having more churches per street corner than

anywhere else. As one would assume, the trinity of Southern life is God, family, and football. If

you struggle to fit in one of those prescribed boxes, well, bless your heart. I never quite fit in any

of them. I was the perfect Southern daughter growing up: shy, soft-spoken, perfect grades without

being obviously smart (because no one finds a nerdy girl attractive), helpful with my younger

brother and cousins, and submissive. This girl with pale skin, crooked teeth, freckles, and glasses

learned quickly that rebelling against the system of the South only brought dirty looks,

condemnation, and fear. Trust me, the irony of rebelling against self-proclaimed ‘rebels’ of the

United States is not lost. Just as kudzu underlines the silhouettes exhibited within the landscape,

Southern society quickly begins to contour girls into the proper and acceptable shape. Straight hair,

tan skin, perfect teeth, a cute laugh, and, most importantly, a submissive attitude are necessary to

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fit the mold. Being expressive earns the label of “sassy.” Being artistic translates to being weird.

Being highly intelligent threatens the patriarchy. After all, a women’s role simply is to look pretty

and raise her family.

I knew from a very early age that I was different. Isn’t that how it always begins? My

attraction was to people, not males or females singularly. Somehow, because I felt this way at such

a young age, I knew it was innocent, despite the Bible-thumping poured into me three services a

week. An internal voice assured that love and attraction through the lens of people (not gender)

was natural and I was somehow spared the weight of shame. My sexuality was present at a young

age and I recall feelings of attraction to females before males. My first crush was in kindergarten,

a rebelling girl named Martina. Curls of dirty blonde hair, tan skin, and brown eyes so dark you

could see your reflection. Martina owned the playground during P.E. Somehow simultaneously

athletic and feminine, Martina could beat any boy with any game and cross the monkey bars faster

than a fourth grader. Frequently getting in fights with other children, Martina was rough. She

stomped the dusty grounds in an 80’s style tank top, painted with italicized geometric shapes, a

knee-length skirt, and dirty running shoes, lightly laughing one minute and menacingly threatening

someone the next. The most significant memory of her is during a truth-or-dare playoff behind the

playground’s biggest oak tree. A boy dared her to pull up her shirt and she did not hesitate. My

face blushed in shyness but my heart pounded fast in conflict. This girl elicited feelings of

curiosity, admiration, and envy. The way she dressed, with a blazing attitude of indifference about

what people thought, even if she got in trouble. Maybe she was just rebelling. Maybe she came

from a troubled homelife and just wanted attention of any kind. Or maybe, just maybe, she was

taking ownership of her body. She was expressing her sexuality and personality, unabashedly

brave in the face of societal expectations. I thought, I want to be like her. Can I? I looked at Martina

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and admired her irreverence to the world. She did what she wanted with no apologies. How could

I live a life of this freedom without disappointing my family and God? Like the kudzu

extermination attempts, I briefly tried to eradicate my feelings and desires. I had to somehow stop

the dissimilar sentiments from taking root before I was despised and hated just like kudzu; This

beautiful, ferocious species, that was simply hated for doing what nature designed it to do –

survive.

I remember asking my parents how people could be “bad” when we are all children of God.

I was told not to ask questions about God. Questioning “His word” meant I was disrespecting “the

Word.” I failed to follow their logic. How could an omnipotent presence create humans, endow

them in His image, and then condemn them for loving the way their hearts desired? They were

correct; I had no respect for a God like that. It was well into my adult years when I reconciled that

my idea of God is quite different than their version. My God’s religion is based on love, not fear

and hate. I quickly learned to extinguish the rebellion for no one was interested in my perspective

or was willing to discuss alternative ways of existing within society. Kudzu finds a place among

the planned, the organized, and the accepted. It survives despite its difference, despite its lack of

belonging. How could I continue to grow and thrive in a place that never ceases to battle for the

eradication of what is diverse?

While I loved the kudzu for its atypical lush beauty, I came to realize that the immense

vegetation of the Deep South was creating a framework for my existence. Its staggered horizon

was never entirely seen, always shaded and corrupted by the smothering branches and leaves; so

was the societal framework of the South. Paul Cloke and Owain Jones discuss this in their essay

“Dwelling, Places, and Landscape: An Orchard in Somerset.” They write, “…it as a mistake to

think that `place equals identity and familiarity' and therefore that place has to be `fixed in space

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and static in time'. Places are fluid, dynamic, multidimensional, yet somehow still have binding

and sometimes haunting identities and familiarities running through them, as threads of

imaginative and material narrative are woven with threads of `having become' and `becoming'”

(652). Religion, family, and political affiliation structure every mindset. Conservative morality,

judgmental bias, and weaponized religion are all used to keep society confined, guilt-ridden, and

(most importantly) fearful. If society can be kept in the framework of fear, the downtrodden are

kept down, the rebels are kept submissive, and the bigots are kept in power.

My sexuality was guarded throughout high school. I had few crushes here and there but I

barely dated. It wasn’t worth the bother. Any attraction to a female would be forbidden. Any male

that held my interest would be just as different as me. The one time I had a boy over to watch a

movie, my mother insisted on sitting with us. We watched The Sixth Sense and I was frustrated

that despite the intriguing narrative, I was consumed with insecurity and worry about what he

would think of me. As the credits filled the screen, I breathed a sigh of relief. Though I liked him,

I had no desire to date if my dating life was confined to these measures. I walked him to his Ford

truck in my driveway and said goodnight. My virginity was lost two years later in a strategic

fashion, milestone passed and box checked. It was as emotionless and basic as I had hoped, never

wanting to waste my intellectual energy on something as silly as virginity.

Where did my sexuality and identity fit in this framework? Though I tried to envisage a

way for me to cultivate and survive, it was not meant to be. Like kudzu, I considered myself an

invasive species. Being born in Tucson, Arizona, I frequently romanticized the notion of the desert

being my true home. My parents moved back to Alabama shortly after my birth. I dreamt that I

was meant to grow up in the desert and that is why I felt so different in the South. It was never my

true home. That home lay somewhere west of the Mississippi where the sky is open and blue and

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the horizon is always visible. A few days shy of my 18th birthday, I drove off into the sunset of

the West.

II. Landscape as a path – Southwest, United States

My journey began as the sun set in North Alabama in August 2002. My white Corolla

purred down Highway 278 with windows down, Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited blaring.

Humidity filled the air leaving my skin damp. The thermometer read 88 degrees, but the air

conditioning was off as I was trying to save gas money. I had less than $450 in my bank account

following a necessary stop at Wal-Mart for snacks (Frito BBQ twists, peanut M&MS and iced

coffee) and a Road Atlas, 2002 Edition. The tiny backseat of my sedan was organized, serving as

my safe place. My anxiety has always been fueled by mess and clutter, so my living spaces are

typically as organized as possible. A body pillow, a quilt made by my great-grandmother, four

bath towels (to roll up in the windows at night for a makeshift tent at rest areas), and notebooks

for journaling. My duffle bag was bright in the dark backseat, with its retro 60s flower print. It sat

next to my vintage avocado green Samsonite carry-on full of clothes and a hot roller set (the bigger

the hair, the closer to God…am I right?). The passenger seat held my beloved American Southwest

travel book, a notebook, and my CD binder full of Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd, U2, Led Zeppelin,

Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, and Loretta Lynn to serve as my soundtrack. I hopped on Interstate

40 West in Memphis, crossing the Mississippi River via a gloriously depressing metal bridge into

Arkansas. I dreamt of I-40 so many nights as stared at the American Southwest travel book and an

old road atlas. This road promised escape, freedom, the possibility of acceptance. You know,

Manifest Destiny and all that. Arkansas instantly depressed me with multi-lane interstates full of

semi-trucks and tractor-trailers. Eight lanes of traffic, flat, dingy, and grey that eventually gave

way to rice fields. As I approached Oklahoma, the land shifted subtly to flat plains and fewer trees.

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Swiftly, the landscape became unfamiliar. While Alabama has fields and some plains, it is highly

vegetated. The curtain parted in Oklahoma where I could glimpse the alternative. My pulse raced

and my mind shimmered in disbelief as I finally left my homeplace to search for me.

There was no plan, no itinerary, just the magnetic pull of the unknown. I drove for 24 hours

before stopping outside of Amarillo, Texas. As dusk slowly fell on the second day of my travels,

the big Texas sky painted the foreign landscape. Southern sunsets are frequently obscured.

Logically, you realize the sun is setting but the dense vegetation obscures the signals of time. The

broad plains of farmland in Western Texas gave an entirely different perspective. I fell into the

rhythm of the road and the openness of the horizon as I drove west, but my experience was

interrupted when I noticed an intrusion in the skyline about 60 miles east of Amarillo. What was

that thing vertically protruding? Oh, a cross. Of course. The Groom Cross rises nineteen stories

high, birthed from a barren and flat landscape. The irony of finding Jesus as I ran away from it all

was not lost. The moment I felt myself expanding, a symbol of my imprisonment erected itself. A

larger-than-life representation of conservatism, dogmatism, football games, and more – all

embodied in that construction. What to do except continuing driving?

Approaching Amarillo on I-40 W, I pulled my grimy and tired car off a nearly abandoned

exit. The big Texas Sky slowly, surely pulled night’s dark shade on the landscape. I could not

reconcile the complete horizon I was witnessing. Landscape allowed me to see as far as I wanted

to see without obstacles or framework. Sitting on the dusty hood of my car and watching that

sunset, I felt myself unfurl. Could the West offer my identity a place to fully expand and develop,

in the way that it was always smothered by conformity in the South? The need to keep my identity

hidden or conformed to societal norms suddenly felt like an absurd compulsion, like a multi-

faceted Sapphire necklace hidden from plain sight. My limbs loosened. My shoulders moved away

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from my ears. My soul unwound. Here, I could display my sapphire. Here, I could present however

I wanted to present. These multi-facets of identity could finally be worn and displayed with pride

and without fear. Shoulders relaxed, jaw released, heart opened, guard down.

I consider Amarillo the gateway to the Southwest. It pulls open the screen of conservatism

and oppression, offering an alternative viewpoint of possibility. That night I slept a few hours in

my car at a rest stop, wanting to believe I was braver than the reality. One doesn’t grow up in the

confines of a small, mostly-white town and feel comforted and safe in the open big world. Shaken

by the realization of my reality, I took pause. Was I brave enough to proceed? Physically and

mentally? I knew what I would find in the South. I had paced every inch of space in that room,

opened every door of my mind. Was I brave enough to seek the unknown? I finally relaxed close

to dawn. After a few hours of rest, I set back out on the road.

My white Toyota Corolla affectionately known as “Go-Cart” purred and struggled up the

increasing elevation of the Sandia Heights mountains east of Albuquerque. Despite usually burning

at a whisper of light, the sun felt soothing on my skin through the car window. Amarillo had opened

my eyes. My vision was without obstruction. My identity was exposed to whatever I decided to

become. I was ready. But…exhaustion got the best of me. Despite only driving for five hours, I

decided to rest in Albuquerque. I checked out the city, visited a Buffalo Exchange vintage store,

and ate an amazing burrito. I found a cheap motel on the outskirts of Albuquerque off Route 66.

A hipster’s paradise, the motel room’s furniture was authentically mid-century modern (as in, it

literally had not been remodeled since the early 1970s). After unloading the backseat, I rushed to

the shower. Residing in humidity is one kind of dirty; the dust from the open road and Southwest

permeates differently. I blew my nose and found dust-encrusted snot. Never did a shower feel so

good. I crashed soon after into the safety of a locked door and scratchy, stiff hotel sheets.

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Morning brought McDonald’s coffee and a plain buttered biscuit. Onward I drove through

New Mexico and into the high desert of northern Arizona. New Mexico’s soft and subtle landscape

reminiscent of a Monet began to transition to something harsher, heartier – an atypical beauty. My

heart loudly thumped as I crossed the state border and saw the Arizona State Flag. Parked outside

the entrance of Walnut Canyon National Monument, I prepared myself for the inevitability of this

drive on Interstate 40 to California through high desert and the Mojave. The desert was affecting

me, and not just the lack of humidity. It stirred my soul in ways untouched. Its vastness, its

openness, its acceptance all promised space to find my identity. The desert does not judge or force

conformity. The desert asks of you what you ask of it: acceptance of its atypical beauty.

I kept driving for the next few days, hitting Bakersfield, Modesto, San Francisco, and back

down to Los Angeles. Sitting on a Malibu cliff, at the edge of America, I contemplated my next

move. My funds were low. I knew staying in California or Arizona was not currently an option. I

took a deep breath and slowly returned to my car. A literal and allegorical U-turn sent me east on

Interstate 10. I drove eight hours before reaching Tucson. Tucson was a nice city; a Goldilocks of

possibility – not too big, not too small. It was urban enough without overwhelming the stunning

landscape. Before finding a cheap interstate motel, I tried out Del Taco. Surprise! The food was

horribly bland. Sitting in the blinking fluorescent dining room, I contemplated: Why did I choose

a faux-Mexican fast food chain when I was in one of the capitals of Southwestern cuisine? Because

as much as I would have liked to be the cool girl who rebukes the establishment and searches for

authenticity, my small-town conformity won out, seeking comfort in the safety of chains. After

all, chains are always there, unchanging and steady, holding you back.

As I headed back East to get my life in order, I knew Arizona was my home. Paul Cloke

and Owain Jones write:

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“Dwelling suggests a perspective which is about being in the landscape, about

moving through it, in all the (perhaps) repeating yet various circumstances of

everyday life. Being in, and moving through, landscape is different to gazing upon

it from a point, which always seemingly puts you at the edge of it, or even outside

of it. The landscape surrounds you, it will often be unreadable from any one given

position, and your orientation may be constantly or frequently, even habitually,

shifting.”

The enormity of the desert offered a clearing of mind and soul, and allowed acceptance of

myself and my beliefs. I buckled down in Alabama, trying to find happiness in the restless soul of

another, much like my own. We pined for adventure outside of our childhood Southern enclosure,

yet he was unable to entirely untether himself. I plodded along in an office job, a truly apathetic

employee. Checking all the boxes and performing all the duties, I lacked spirit, dedication,

intention. Looking back on those times, I only see a romantically pathetic slacker. Riddled with

perfectionism by nature, I would rather quit or never try to succeed versus failing or doing

something half-ass. Those eighteen months were half-ass. I was the worst version of myself. And

while my un-suffering middle-class reality had no business in comparing the two, I realized why

crimes are continually committed in areas of abject poverty: self-destruction. If a soul feels stuck

in the space it resides, desiring to escape but trapped, it lashes out…or it collapses into itself. Or,

it fights, like a cornered rabid dog. I came back from my first road trip with passion and desire to

leave the kudzu prison. I would do anything, work any job, live anywhere, even my car. I screened

Raising Arizona time and time again, yearning for the dream of living in a beat-up, rusty trailer in

the desolate Sonoran Desert. How could an eighteen-year-old make this happen? I plodded, I

numbed myself. I tried complacency. I tried self-destruction (luckily, unlike most of my family, I

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am without the addict gene). In 2006, I had enough. Researching for jobs in Tucson, I felt the

desert gods would assist my endeavor. Afterall, it was the place of my birth. I was correct.

Scheduling several job interviews in Tucson, borrowing $600 from my grandmother, and packing

my car’s backseat with necessities, I once again joined I-40 West in Memphis. Windows down in

Go-Cart, the April night offered a cooling farewell as my hair whipped around my face. Goodbye,

kudzu.

Fast-forward five years. I had my first child in 2011 with my husband (a wonderful man

that I met when interviewing for my first job in Tucson). My second son was born in 2013 and my

youngest was born in 2015. Before his birth in December 2015, I started back to college. I had

been piecemealing my college education after my parents pulled their support from me following

my initial road trip out west. As it should happen, education began to unlock mental doors for me.

I saw things differently, became aware of the plethora of alternating perspectives in humanity, and

grew hungry for more knowledge and more exposure. The more I knew, the more confused I felt.

How did my culture and identity fit in with all the newly realized historical and contemporary

atrocities? In fact, what is my culture? Edward W. Said discusses this in his essay “Invention,

Memory, and Place.” He writes, “Because the world has shrunk – for example, communications

have been speeded up fantastically – and people find themselves undergoing the most rapid social

transformations in history, ours has become an era of a search for roots, of people trying to discover

in the collective memory of their race, religion, community, and family a past that is entirely their

own, secure from the ravages of history and a turbulent time” (243). I knew my ancestors had

immigrated to the United States in the late 17th century, shortly after the Pilgrims. My life seemed

rather bleached of culture and traditions. Strangely, I felt I was somehow deserving of this fate

after what fellow settlers did to indigenous people in this country. Bulldozing over anything that

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threatened to stand in the way of Manifest Destiny and erasing cultures like the people never

existed is the primary tradition of settlers. How would I find who I am in a past as ethically

muddled as that?

Suddenly the frame-less environment of the desert seemed too immense. I found myself

struggling to grasp an identity that felt true. Woman, mother, wife, Caucasian, American. None of

those terms came close to explaining me, and some feel outright incorrect. John Berger discusses

this in his book Ways of Seeing:

“If the new language of images were used differently, it would, through its use,

confer a new kind of power. Within it we could begin to define our experiences

more precisely in areas where words are inadequate. (Seeing comes before words).

Not only personal experiences, but also the essential historical experience of our

relation to the past: that is to say the experience of seeking to give meaning to our

lives, of trying to understand the history of which we can become the active agents”

(33).

Now that I was stripped of framework, what defined me? What dictated my identity and purpose?

What was my culture? How could I define who I am? I was struck with the truth of America. Land

of the free, except for x, y, and z. Land of individualism over societal needs, land of the silenced

and the stubbornness, without acknowledgement of past sins. How can our society ever be

cohesive? Mending and strengthen our society can only occur if America truly looks at herself.

But it just won’t. America refuses to glimpse a past, rewriting the historical narrative to praise

bravery, industry, and ownership, all while negating genocide, racial injustice, and gender

imbalance. The radical change in the political climate in 2016 further cemented this societal

imbalance and hypocrisy. How could we call ourselves “the land of the free?” While the South is

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a supremely accurate representation of this mentality, the Southwest tailored a similar stifling fit.

Like kudzu, America transmutes the strength of whatever it invades. The desert tried to oblige my

wavering eye, directing my vision upward with the perpendicular lines of the mighty saguaro

cactus against the horizon. But I found the openness was not enough. The openness was not

sincere. The openness was not real.

III. Landscape as an ambiguity – New Zealand

When a study abroad trip to New Zealand was advertised in Fall 2018 at my university, I

instantaneously knew it was my trip. New Zealand had always been the destination for me, the

pinnacle of exotic, utopian locations. At least, that is what I always assumed. Adding to this

cultural immersion was the chance to learn more about the New Zealand film industry. I had sat at

a career crossroads for the last year as the completion of my undergraduate degree in English

loomed closer. Do I teach? Do I continue my academic journey in Film, trading my minor degree

for an additional undergraduate? What about graduate school? I spent most of 2018 attempting to

visualize the correct path for me, envious of those people who knew from grade school exactly

“what they want to be when they grow up.” I spent a large part of 2019 travelling to Mexico,

Scandinavia, and England. My year of travel was intended to give insight to personal aspects

overlooked. New Zealand seemed like it would be the biggest catalyst.

As I watched the recommended New Zealand films to prepare for the study abroad course,

a common theme emerged from the narratives. The main characters of The Piano, Once Were

Warriors, and Whale Rider are all females who are striving to buck societal expectation. Ada in

The Piano is defined by her surroundings, both nature and men. Essentially sold to her husband

by her father, she is forced to a foreign land and stripped of her cultural identity. Clinging to the

piano as her metaphorical voice, Ada learns that nothing has to define her. She gets to decide her

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identity all on her own. Beth in Once Were Warriors faces a similar dilemma. Essentially forced

to leave her Māori tribe because of falling in love with Jake (a non-Māori), she trades a life of

traditional roles for a life with an alcoholic bully. By the film’s end, she realizes that she can chose

what defines her life and it does not have to be a man or her tribe. In Whale Rider, Pai struggles

against similar patriarchal mentality. Despite clearly being the next leader for her tribe, her

grandfather does everything in his power to prevent her success, all because of her gender.

Vacillating between following the rules versus following her destiny, Pai eventually succumbs to

the life nature intends for her. She claims her fate as the leader of her tribe and defines her identity.

Perhaps identity is not a thing that comes with birth in this world. Perhaps identity is what we

define it to be. Why should the definitive thing about ourselves be prescribed by outside forces?

The notion is nonsensical.

The natural world of New Zealand was (and still is) the biggest catalyst in a metamorphosis

of self. I assumed the landscape of New Zealand would be spectacular. I knew that the impression

the New Zealand films had given me was not just movie magic. The land stands firm and devout

in each of those films, sometimes starring as a main character as well as the stage for the narrative.

Yet somehow, it exceeded those expectations and, quite frankly, made me feel naïve and ignorant

for assuming I could control my intake of its effects. I had no control of how its beauty changed

me. I had no way of concealing the elation, the fervor, and the passion for how this was

transforming me. John Wylie discusses this in his essay “Depths and Folds: On the Landscape and

the Gazing Subject.” He writes, “A crucial point here is that the visual world always transcends its

perception. In seeing or touching something I do not assimilate it, or acquire a total grasp of it;

instead, it transcends my apprehension. For there to be vision at all the body which sees must be

part of the world, and the sensible world must be transcendent in relation to the body that sees”

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(526). Elemental factors only heightened the sensations. The cold temperature was invigorating,

the wind was exhilarating, the rain was cleansing, and the air, unpolluted and pure, simply fueled

my mind to crave more sensation.

Beginning on the shores of Karekare Beach, to the trails around Taranaki Falls, down the

Seal Coast of Wellington, around the Remarkables of Queenstown, and finally the climactic

Milford Road and Milford Sound, New Zealand captured my heart and spirit. Day after day, I shed

shadowy burdens and lightened myself to new possibilities. I absorbed academic concepts that I

never knew existed, despite experiencing the effects of those concepts my entire life. The set of

lens by which I used to see the world continued to be shattered. I would attempt to filter what was

engrossing me, only to have it instantly consume me, like an invasive vine. New Zealand declares

no boundaries, no lines, no framework. Nature continually reminded me of how constricted we

live in our lives in the United States. Perpendicular lines of reaching trees, diagonal angles of fallen

roots, and the arches of a rainbow appeared in the most unexpected landscapes: a lakefront, a

hiking trail, a beach, a snowy mountainside. What could this mean? What was New Zealand trying

to teach?

I learned that we need no framework for viewing beauty and that defining one’s identity is

not necessary for living a magnificent life. An amalgamation of conflicting elements and textures

can provide a far more interesting depiction than a repeating pattern of assumed beauty. Why do

we feel the need to define others and to define ourselves? Why can we not simply exist as elements

in infinite art that constantly regenerates and expands? Tim Ingold writes:

“As the familiar domain of our dwelling, it is with us, not against us, but it is no

less real for that. And through living in it, the landscape becomes a part of us, just

as we are a part of it. Moreover, what goes for its human component goes for other

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components as well. In a world construed as nature, every object is a self-contained

entity, interacting with others through some kind of external contact. But in a

landscape, each component enfolds within its essence the totality of its relations

with each and every other. In short, whereas the order of nature is explicate, the

order of the landscape is implicate” (154).

Just as the bicultural elements of New Zealand have merged to form a deep national identity,

humanity has the potential to merge into a most exquisite masterpiece. Whether you believe in

God or not, one must agree that humanity’s love for one another is the ultimate goal of our

existence.

John Wylie writes that the “Relations between selves and landscapes are motile relations,

an incessant movement of enfolding and unfolding, openness and enclosing, in which the two

implicate (fold with) and include each other. Thus, in the relationship of being-for-the-world, the

self includes the landscape and vice versa” (531). I discovered a land that gets so many things

right: A place that understands the delicate balance of multiple cultures, yet finds a way to weave

the threads into strength and beauty; A place that honors its mistakes and misgivings,

acknowledging the problems of the past in order to turn to a better future; A place that appreciates

the blessing of environmental stewardship, actively working to ensure future generations the same

blissful experience with nature as current generations; A place that collectively agrees that a better

lifestyle for all society is worth the work and expense needed; A place that heals the wounds of

insecurity and shame, that cleanses the worry and fear of life goals, that simply elevates all who

are willing to fall in love with its essence.

Driving down the Milford Road to Milford Sound, I was struck by epiphany: I am New

Zealand. I am an amalgamation of conflicting concepts and ideals. I am an ambiguity of thought.

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I am lonely and fulfilled. I am a collective of eccentricities that combine into beauty; a wild, raw,

unadulterated, spiritual, and beatific beauty. Tentacles of my spirit clawed to grasp the land, to

cling to the beauty, to hold on to the healing landscape and all that it represented to me. True

beauty is not one thing; beauty exists in the accidental collision of conflicting ideals. True beauty

exists in spite of the world’s attempt to smother it for perfection. True beauty occurs when one

releases antiquated notions of precision and allows the landscape to define it.

Without knowing it, I realized I have been longing for New Zealand my entire life. It

answers all the questions, soothes all the pain, fulfills all the voids, and pulls my spirit closer to

God and to the essence of humanity. While the Deep South forces assimilation and the Southwest

strips away any identity, the landscape of New Zealand celebrates the splendid blending of every

place, identity, and role. I have accepted that I’m not my mother’s daughter and I’m not my

father’s daughter. I’m not a Southerner, a Tucsonan, or an American. I’m not straight. I’m not gay.

I’m not a heteronormative wife. I’m not a binary gender. Enlightenment exists in the acceptance

that none of those definitions matter.

Though my roots will always dwell in the Deep South, and the Southwest will always fill

my heart, I have found the place for which I have been longing my entire life. It is a land of

possibility, of magic, of depth, of life, of change, of forgiveness, and of love. As I drove away

from Milford Sound, a piece of my soul fell away to reside among the ferns and snow. With a

glance over my shoulder, I tilted my forehead down to touch my nose to the spirit of New Zealand.

To greet, to miss, to love, to promise - my return. It’s my kaupapa. It’s my road to home.

I returned to Alabama in February 2020 to celebrate my grandmother’s 80th birthday.

Surrounded by the very roots from which I grew, I should have felt accepted, a fully bloomed plant

returning to the garden of my youth. Comment after comment about political opinions, denial of

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climate change, and justifications of racism jolted me, like someone snapping their fingers too

close to my ears. My son August is vehemently just in his political leanings, unable to compromise

his standards of right and wrong for any excuse. (I should mention that he is 6 with an IQ of 140).

While I agree with most of his assertations concerning the country’s political climate, I reminded

him to be mindful of the true definition of open-mindedness. We were staying with people who

have different beliefs, and that’s ok. We are lucky to live in a place where we can all disagree

without fear of retribution or harm. As a parent, I live the mantra of open-mindedness and exposure

of knowledge. I long for my children to make informed, personal decisions using their souls as

their own moral compass. Such openness can only be achieved if exposed to all different breeds

of thinking. Towards the end of the trip, August mentioned his disdain for the current President

and discussed his election celebration party planning for if the current presidency ends. Instead of

gentle disagreement or an intellectual conversation discussing his reasoning, he was immediately

met with derision and an audible “BOO!” accompanied with a thumbs down. Suddenly, the road

crystallized before me. Though I was grown in this garden, it truly held no power over me. I was

released. Consistently, any differing ideas or thought-provoking notions are outcast and spurned.

Different equals wrong, always and forever, amen. I am the same old alien species I have always

been, surviving where it is unwanted, shaping substance over the yearnful plain and unadorned,

growing splendor from the cracks and brokenness of establishments. And as for my children, well,

kudzu only ever grows more kudzu. And I know where we need to grow.

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References

Berger, John. Ways of Seeing. British Broadcasting Corporation, 1972.

Cloke, Paul and Owain Jones. “Dwelling, Place, and Landscape: An Orchard in Somerset.”

Environment and Planning A, Vol. 33, 2001, pp. 649-666.

Ingold, Tim. “The Temporality of the Landscape.” World Archaeology, Vol. 25, No. 2, 1993, pp.

152-174.

Said, Edward W. “Invention, Memory, and Place.” Landscape and Power, edited by W.J.T.

Mitchell, The University of Chicago Press, 1994, pp. 241-259.

Wylie, John. “Depths and Folds: On Landscape and the Gazing Subject.” Environment and

Planning D: Society and Space, Vol. 24, pp. 519-535.

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