Julia Bardo: Love Letters Home
““Home is where one starts from” ”
We all have our own definitions of what ‘home’ is.
For some, it’s the memories of childhood, family, and friends. For others, it’s all down to livelihood, location, and language. For Julia Bardo and Molly Payton, it’s the latter. Due to the pandemic, both singer-songwriters have found themselves somewhat stranded in the U.K. away from their respective homelands, Italy and New Zealand. In response, we asked both soloists to tell us what ‘home’ really means to them…
Dear home, I miss you.
I miss the mid-century coloured tiles that cover the flooring. I miss looking at passers-by and their dogs from the balcony, and telling my dog Colette off for barking, smiling at her, without an ounce of seriousness nor anger, because I love her too much and because she is a dog, that’s what they do. I miss hearing the Moroccan greengrocer’s voice, located below my parents’ house. He screams about the type of fruit of the day, but it sounds more like a heartfelt song or prayer. I miss the smell and colours of multiculturalism that exist in my street, Via San Faustino. Even though I cannot stand it, I miss waking up to my mother’s voice, flooding me with questions the first thing in the morning, while I head towards the kitchen with my eyes still closed. I miss my dad’s annoyed face, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, telling her to stop and that not everyone is like her in the morning, ready to tackle life. I miss the limpid sky, the smell of transparent air, the views. It’s like a puzzle, everything is where it should be. It’s been created to make sense, to please the eye. Everything is so familiar and comfortable, It makes me feel safe and accepted.
I miss visiting my cousins and watching their lively big eyes while they tell you what they’ve been up to, sports, making music, thinking about which university they would like to go to. I miss my grandmothers, both widows.
One grandad, Emanuele, died when I was 11, with stomach cancer; the other one, Romolo, died last year because of Covid. Not being able to be close to my family when it happened was the hardest thing. I’ve never experienced a long distance death of such a close family member. I couldn’t process it properly. Six months later I realised that every time I saw an elderly man, I couldn’t stop crying. Automatically.
““I use my hands when I talk, I raise my voice when I am excited, I dream, I get angry, I cry a lot, I eat a lot. I love a lot””
I’ve never thought I would miss home so much. When you put things into perspective, it’s been hard. It’s hard to be here. I miss Italy. I miss speaking Italian and not being misinterpreted if I use my hands too much because I come across as aggressive. I miss people pronouncing my name (and surname) properly, Giulia. It’s the same as Julia, but the Italian version. I don’t know, where is the difficulty? I’ve heard so many variants of it. My name is important, everyone’s is. It carries a piece of culture, a piece of family, a piece of identity with it. If I had more self-esteem I would definitely be bothered by it, but it’s okay.
But no, I am 100% Italian. I didn’t take a test, I haven’t visited ancestry.com yet but to my knowledge I am. Sono Italiana; I am passionate, I am fiery, I am jealous, I am dramatic. This should explain the 100%. What you see is what you get. My emotions are raw, real, and always at the front. I use my hands when I talk, I raise my voice when I am excited, I dream, I get angry, I cry a lot, I eat a lot. I love a lot. Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped on this desert island, which might as well be all deserted for how things are going, deprived of my roots and my language and questioning “Who am I?”
I feel like the more I live here, the more I’m losing my identity. I often feel lonely and I find it so hard to properly bond with people here. It’s like I have to put a lid on my feelings, be colder and distant because everyone around me is. So I close myself in my cocoon, in my bell jar, instead of going out and socialise because I feel so different from everyone. I’ve always felt different no matter where I was but this time is a ‘different’ different. My identity is important, to me. My home reflects my personality, and I am grateful for that.
Dear home, I love you.
This feature was originally released as part of Yuck Magazine Volume Four, available to buy here!