I read Brian Moore’s essay “Going Home” earlier this year while finishing up my degree, and it’s been in the back of my mind since. I chose to annotate the essay for school because I think one day I’d like to emulate it (that means write a completely different essay using the same structure, syntax, sentence length, and everything, as if Moore had written it himself) and make the subject my old home in Kansas City, rather than Moore’s home in Connemara, Ireland. 

However, I believe I need to have been away from home much longer to do the essay justice. So the essay idea continues to sit in the back of my mind...who knows when I’ll be ready to write it. What I do know right now is that Moore’s quote above sticks to me like glue, and that seems to be all I have to say about it at the moment.

Moore’s essay begins with a walk through a humble cemetery, during which he sees a gravestone of a man who’s name triggers a list of memories that detail why he left Ireland and has not returned. 

…Connemara filled my mind with a jumbled kaleidoscope of images fond, frightening, surprising and sad.

I found this particular essay interesting both for the reason I mentioned above, his attitude toward his own home reminds me of my own, but also for the structure of the essay. The gravestone triggers a “kaleidoscope” of memories, and Moore uses bullets to list the memories that at first seem disjointed, but soon begin to weave together to tell his story. 

I’d not thought of using bullets in an essay before (particularly, not an emotionally-charged essay), and I love the concept of splitting a massive spiel of memories into tiny chunks. Not only is it easier to read, it’s like taking a walk into the mind of the narrator. Lists slow you down; you are more likely pay attention to each item listed when they’re all laid bare, one by one.

Though I identify with Moore’s strange attachment to and repulsion of his childhood home, his reasons are different from mine - far different. In fact, I don’t think I even fully understand my own aversion to Kansas City, at least not yet. 

Moore on the other hand has thought much about why he’s left. He grew up during the time of struggle for Irish independence and the failure of catholic and protestant churches to be beacons of hope during such turmoil. 

Rather than stating right out, “I hate Ireland because…,” Moore lets his memories tell the tale. He is very specific in how he describes certain aspects of his childhood. 

For example, all mentions of religion and faith are generally negative. He says, “I stand with my brothers and sisters singing a ludicrous Marian hymn in St. Patrick’s Church at evening devotions,” allowing the word “ludicrous” to do the hard work of showing his contempt. Later he says, “Inattentive and bored, I kneel at Mass…” The way he narrates his memories reveals how he feels about them, rather than saying “Mass was boring, so I never paid attention.” 

Throughout his kaleidoscope of memories, it is clear the political and religious turmoil of Ireland are enough to make him lose hope in the people and the country, though he cannot bring himself to root for complete reform, saying, “Belfast and my childhood have made me suspicious of faiths, allegiances, certainties. It is time to leave home-” Rather than working to change his situation, he sees escape as a more fruitful endeavor. I get that. 

Though his sentiments regarding his home are clear, Moore admits in the middle of the essay that he is a wanderer who’s lost his sense of home. He hasn’t figured out how to replace this nebulous idea of “home;” in all his travels, nothing sticks, though he briefly wonders about trying France for a while. 

I was drawn to this notion as well, this concept of replacing home. Though I know I never want to live in Kansas again, I wonder if I’ll ever feel totally at home in Tennessee or North Carolina or Colorado or wherever Tucker and I end up, or if Kansas will always be the curse of a home I cannot replace. Maybe like Moore, I’ll always be a wanderer who’s lost her sense of home. 

The kaleidoscope blurs. The images disappear. The past is buried until, in Connemara, the sight of Bulmer Hobson's grave brings back those faces, those scenes, those sounds and smells which now live only in my memory.

At the end of Moore’s essay, he admits that he wants to be buried in the same way and place as the gravestone which prompted such reflection, stating, “And in that moment I know that when I die I would like to come home at last to be buried here in this quiet place, among the grazing cows.” So it is not the place he hates.

It seems the loss of peace has been the driving force in the first place, not necessarily Ireland itself. This revelation in the essay helped me identify even further with Moore - perhaps the place has nothing to do with anything. 

And perhaps if Moore can find peace again, he will find his sense of home. 

Like I mentioned, I don’t think I’m ready to embark on an emulation of Moore - my idea of home is still being constructed. Besides, Moore was 78 when “Going Home” was published and he’d left home 56 years prior; I’m 25 and I’ve been out of Kansas barely a year. I think I’ve got some time to figure this whole “home” thing out, and like Moore, it probably has very little if anything to do with the place.