What I learn from Eli Clare: “The Body as Home”

“Even if there were a cure for brain cells that died at birth, I’d refused.
I have no idea who I’d be without my specific tremoring, slurring, tense body.” (Clare, 2015)

“The body as home, (…)” (Clare, p.10)

I admire Eli Clare, for being able to see his body as home. To find comfort in that home.
To know every single “room” that made up that home, and still choose to love it even when it was violated, messed up, or broken into.

“The body as home, but only if it is understood that bodies are never singular, but rather haunted, strengthened, underscored by countless other bodies.” (Clare, p.11)
I remember the first home I ever lived in. Vividly, I see us eating dinner. I always had friends over. People loved coming to my house. My eyes would light up during special occasions, my mom in the kitchen cooking, my grandpa in his chair chatting with guests, my grandma sipping tea, my dad letting me climb on his shoulders. And then I remember the last time we had guests. My dad, lying in the living room. Eyes closed. No one seemed happy. After that, no one ever came to my home again, we moved out.

“The body as home, but only if it is understood that place and community and culture burrow deep into our bones” (Clare, p.11)

When we moved to a new city where my mom decided to build a new life. What we called home was a rented apartment with two bedrooms. One for my brother, the other shared between my mom and me. I never invited my friends to come over. For how they would see the picture of my dad on the family’s altar. For how they would know I’m still sleeping with my mom and never had my own room because we couldn’t afford one.

“The body as home, but only if it Is understood that language too lives under the skin.” (Clare, p.12)

When I first came to the U.S for the first time, in effort of making new friends as an international freshmen, I tried making a conversation to a white man. He asked: “So do you really eat dogs back home?” I should’ve been angry. But I just laughed. No, I don’t eat dogs back home. I swallowed my words. I swallowed my discomfort. I let the lie in. I let it sit under my skin.

“The body as home, but only if it is understood that bodies can be stolen, fed lies and poison, torn away frorn us.” (Clare, p.12)

I remember the last time I see my dad, I didn’t think it was my dad. After a year away in China, fighting cancer, he was finally home, but to say goodbye. He’s my dad. But I felt like he was a stranger. He looked scrawny, I think he shaved his mustache away. But dad was home at last. I was mad, because I always told dad to not shave his mustache. It was the first time I see how your body, can be taken away from you.

“The body as home, but only if it is understood that the stolen body can be reclaimed.” (Clare, p.13)

The last time I saw my dad, I didn’t recognize him. But I’m learning that grief, too, lives in the body. And when I let myself feel it, instead of hiding it, I am reclaiming something that was once stolen: my memories, my strength, my love. And queerness gives me something that let me enter “my body finally with liberation, joy, fury, hope, and a will to refigure the world.” (Claire, p.13) For many of us, it’s an act of returning to ourselves, to the body we were taught to reject, to the parts of us that were silenced, ridiculed, or made invisible.
And I used to let people laugh at my English. Now, I speak with intention. Because every word I say in a language that once made me feel small is an act of reclamation. And when I write, I give my body a voice.

It’s calling my body home, even when it still trembles with memories, hesitations, silences and strengths. My body as home.