Travel and Location of Self

“The true artist will use her creativity to find a way, to carve the time, to claim the kitchen table, a library carrel, if a room of her own is not possible. She will use subterfuge if necessary, write poems in her recipe book, give up sleeping time or social time, and write.” –Judith Ortiz Cofer

Feminist scholars consistently discuss the politics of location. From Woolf’s observations on financial freedom (with the end goal being writing location), to Adrianne Rich’s musings on the construction of the body as location, to Cofer’s insistence that women create their own writing space—well more like demand it. It’s not that strange then to see connections between travel writing and feminism. I wonder how Virginia Woolf would have felt about women and travel writing? The women who tell these stories don’t exactly always have a room of their own—although they generally have a financial freedom that allows them to travel. But what does it mean for these women writers that travel is marked with constant disorientation, mishaps, and general instability? Can you still create excellent work under these circumstances?

Interesting enough several of the stories in the collection Expat: Women’s True Tales of Life Abroad focus on the lack of a familiarity and how to create a “room of one’s own” or “home” abroad in order to adapt and flourish. These stories discuss the quest for stability (or search for familiar location). The writing comes from that place of discomfort and not in the achievement of location stability.

Some of the most interesting stories to this effect are ones about the desire for everyday comforts. Kate Baldus’s story “First, the Blanket” explains her first week living in Bangladesh and her inability to navigate the city to buy a blanket so she could sleep through the unexpected 50 degree nights: “The stress of a new job, a new home, and life in a new country made me forget all my reasons for coming to Bangladesh in the first place. For a moment I wanted to run back to California, but I convinced myself that I would be okay if only I could get a blanket” (186). A co-worker finally takes her into the city to find a blanket to Baldus’s simultaneous joy and dismay. Stricken with fear at the unfamiliar rickshaw bicycles and assaulted by unfamiliar smells—Baldus remains tense the entire first ride, but always maintaining her focus on the blanket. In this case, it is seemingly her singular focus on this one element (the need of a blanket) that enables her to continue challenging herself to engage in situation that makes her uncomfortable—more importantly though it is her discomfort that inspires her to write.

In some instances the desire for comfort relates directly to a feeling of Americaness. In Adrienne Rich’s “Notes toward a Politics of Location” Rich discusses how her travels have forced an awareness of her American values and identity: “It was in reading poems by contemporary Cuban women that I began to experience the meaning of North America as a location…I traveled then to Nicaragua…under the hills of the Nicaragua-Honduras border, I could physically feel the weight of the United States of North America…” (233). While Rich is referring to the global politics of being American, the realization is similar to Emily Wise Miller’s desire for American popular culture in her story “Jean-Claude Van Damn That was a Good Movie.” Miller describes how in the US she was very picky about the films she watched, sometimes going “months without seeing anything” instead of dealing with “sugaric” films (81). However, when she moves to Italy she finds that the isolation of living in another country produces what she terms the “SLOB: a Sucka Living O’Broad” phenomenon (82). While her story if definitely humorous, it also touches on a need for familiar spaces in order to have the comfort needed for daily functions, such as writing. The travel also forces her to come to terms with her Americaness—a sense of longing that enables her to reexamine her identity and self-awareness: “Maybe it’s my instinct for survival, an innate willingness to adapt to new situations (I can dry my laundry on the line and dodge speeding scooters when I cross the street); for the time I live abroad, I am just happy to put my critical faculties on occasional pause for a dose of home on the big screen” (88). 

Maybe the real challenge for authors is being forced into situations of discomfort that act as catalysts for self-reflection. That profound writing comes from an amalgamation of rest and unrest. While I agree with Woolf that too many barriers stifle creative spirit, too few barriers prevent necessary moments of self-reflection that make possible the moments of “subterfuge” Cofer advocates.

This conflict of experiences reminds me a bit of my move from Florida to DC. When I traveled outside the US it made sense to me that I would feel like an outsider looking in, but the transient status of tourist meant that my “foreigner” standing failed to bother me. I did confront my Americaness, and while useful for my own self-reflection, it didn’t surprise me. What surprised me more was how much I felt like an outsider when moving to DC. I knew I would miss my loved ones and that I’d have difficulty adapting (I’ve never excelled at dealing with extreme change), but I was surprised at how “different” I suddenly felt. The differences between Florida and DC culture are both extreme and subtle. I felt the outsider status, but in my own country—who knew!

As much as I’m learning to enjoy parts of DC more and more, it has been difficult adjusting the change. While some fantastic new friends have made it easier, it is still odd to imagine that I am part of a Florida culture. Instead of coming face-to-face with my Americaness—I have had to negotiate my Floridianess. Everyday here I meet people who don’t know how to swim, who have never heard of Jimmy Buffet, who have never had to worry about water restrictions, who have never had a colada or tasted guava, who have never been to Disney World, who think it is inappropriate for women to wear shorts above knee length (COME ON PEOPLE! It is freaking hot outside!), who are not familiar with the delicate nature of Caribbean politics, who think that my wearing cowboy boots with my summer dress is “odd” spring behavior, and who have never eaten a fantastic Florida avocado instead of those ikkky small ones at the supermarket.

On the other end, everyday here leads me to new discoveries and experiences. From how to eat Maryland crabs (very VERY different from eating snow crabs considering it has parts that if you eat it could kill you) to how to drive a 15 passenger van on snowy streets in a city full of narrow streets and one way alley ways (identifying one way streets still seem to be a challenge for me). I may not be an expat in the traditional sense, but I do feel the disorientation of a complete shift in lifestyle—and I have the privileges of knowing the language and laws (which often the expats in these stories do not)! I can’t even imagine how these feeling of isolation are amplified by more extreme factors. All in all, I do experience the discomforts and newness that enable my continual self-reflection and push me into a novel understanding of where I am in this world. Maybe this is why travel narratives have been so perfect for me as of late. I don’t know what this means for my writing yet, but for now this is the kitchen table I’ve claimed to explore the possibilities.  

Texts Used for this Post:

De, Tessan Christina Henry. Expat: Women's True Tales of Life Abroad. New York, NY: Seal, 2002. Print.

Gilbert, Sandra M., and Susan Gubar. Feminist Literary Theory and Criticism: A Norton Reader. New York: W.W. Norton, 2007. Print.

Kallet, Marilyn, and Judith Ortiz Cofer. Sleeping with One Eye Open: Women Writers and the Art of Survival. Athens: University of Georgia, 1999. Print.