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D. Exile and Belonging

Barbara Kingsolver’s. Homeland and Other Stories about Another America

Bénédicte Meillon
p. 261-269


Dès le titre, le recueil de nouvelles Homeland and Other Stories oriente l’attention du lecteur vers l’importance du traitement de l’espace et des terres d’Amérique à la source de l’imaginaire de Barbara Kingsolver. Ses origines Cherokee, son enfance en milieu rural et sa formation initiale en temps que biologiste spécialisée dans l’écologie se mêlent chez cet auteur à une sensibilité poétique exacerbée, et par ailleurs fort imprégnée des sublimes paysages de l’Arizona où elle a longtemps résidé. Les métaphores géologiques abondent de fait tout au long du recueil. Les récits puisent de plus à la signification de lieux mythiques, tantôt pour les valeurs que ces lieux véhiculent, tantôt à l’inverse afin de les resémantiser. La mention des lieux, réels ou fictifs, vient en définitive alimenter un réseau de significations implicites essentiel à l’étendue de la nouvelle, qui se déploie en profondeur plutôt qu’à la surface réduite occupée par le texte. Barbara Kingsolver interroge tout au long du recueil les notions de territoires et d’appartenance, tant dans leurs dimensions spatiale qu’identitaire et culturelle. Les personnages de Kingsolver incarnent diverses formes d’exil au sein de la civilisation postmoderne. Le courant transcendantaliste et la dimension mythopéique de l’écriture de Kingsolver, qui se nourrit amplement des symboles offerts par la nature, dévoilent la capacité de l’œil humain à se frayer le chemin d’un retour à la terre, et révèlent l’appartenance première de l’homme au cosmos. Enfin, le traitement de l’espace, qui sert tout d’abord à guider le lecteur dans le parcours herméneutique du recueil, indique les voies de la transcendance textuelle.

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  • 1 As a teenager, Kingsolver indeed felt as an outcast from her hometown’s social life in Carlisle, Ke (...)

1According to Barbara Kingsolver, "Homeland" works as a title for her collection because it ties all the stories together. While homeland, as a concept, may refer to the place one comes from, it may also relate to one’s sense of belonging through family and culture. Moreover, as Kingsolver’s life and works suggest, one may well experience a sense of exile in one’s own home place.1 My goal in this presentation is to tackle the various aspects of one’s sense of belonging in Kingsolver’s fiction, deeply influenced by America’s immense landscapes and diversity of places. I will try to show that her writing depicts, as the title for her poetry collection suggests, "Another America," which questions the notions of territory and home in the light of geographical space, of culture, ideology, and identity. First, I will analyze the sense of exile represented in her stories. Then I will sift the transcendentalist vision in her writing through which one’s sense of belonging is perceived as related to the cosmos. Finally, I will study how the treatment of space leads to metaphors for literature, as an open space, which can be forever remapped.

2Usually, we tend to think as one’s homeland as a concept grounded in geographical territory. However, the eponymous short story questions the notion contained in its title—"Homeland"—and eventually invalidates the idea that one’s homeland consists in the place one comes from. Indeed, as Green Leaf’s family try to take her back to the place where she grew up as a Bird Clan Cherokee girl, it turns out the place she has known before has been erased from the map of America. Cherokee land has since then been completely redrawn: "The Hiwassee Valley’s got a town in it now, it says ‘Cherokee.’ Right here." (8) Implicitly, Green Leafs reaction to the modern, Texaco map of her home place points to the absurdity of the new lines invented to redesign the United States territory:

"Great Mam looked down at the colored lines and squinted [...]. "Is this the Hiwassee river?" she wanted to know.
"No, now those lines are highways," [Papa] said. [...]
"Well, what’s this?"
He looked. "That’s the state line."
"Now why would they put that on the map? You can’t see it." (8)

3Tragically enough, for all the signs claiming to authenticity, the picture we get of the so-called ‘Cherokee’ town gives away the tourist trap simulacrum made up by American capitalism: "There were more signs after that, with pictures of cartoon Indian boys urging us to buy souvenirs or stay in so-and-so’s motor lodge. The signs were shaped like log cabins and teepees. Then we saw a real teepee. It was made of aluminium and taller than a house. Inside it was a souvenir store. [...]" (17) The whole town turns out as a sham display of the worst clichés of American Indian identity for sale. Tragically, Green Leaf eventually concludes, "I’ve never been her before." (18) The defacement of the true Cherokee heritage is moreover expressed through metonymy, as the family go to "Cherokee Park" and see icons of American culture trashing the originally more natural landscape: "Sycamore trees grew at the water’s edge, with colourful, waterlogged trash floating in circles in the eddies around their roots." (18) Additionally, the park exhibits as its "principal attraction" "an old buffalo in a pen," one-eyed and sick with the mange, and "identified by a sign as the Last Remaining Buffalo East of the Mississippi." (18) The buffalo is thus turned from an emblem of the Indian way of life, in harmony with nature, to a tragic symbol of the Indian genocide carried out by American civilization, relegating the last Indians onto reservations similar to the buffalo’s pen. In this light, "homeland" resounds with its South African meaning, as a euphemism for "reservation."

4But American Indians do not appear as the only characters who feel excluded from postmodern society. In "Stone Dreams" for example, when the couple goes to the Petrified Forest National Park and follows the itinerary drawn out on their visitors’ map, reality seems to be disconnected from the brochure supposed to reveal the site’s interest: "At each stop we parked the Volvo and hiked the hundred yards or so through the desert to the vista, hoping every time that we were about to see the real petrified forest. Peter tried to make it more impressive by reading passages from the brochure [...]." (97) In the end, the two characters come away disappointed, without having seen anything they could possibly grasp the meaning of. In "Islands on the Moon," Annemarie’s eyes are similarly used to describe the senseless simulacrum of a dream-like place in the trailer park where she lives:

The mobile homes are arranged like shoeboxes along the main drive, with cars and motorbikes parked beside them, just so many toys in a sandbox. [...] The trailer court is called "Island Breezes," and like the names of most trailer courts, it’s a joke. No swaying palm trees. In fact, there’s no official vegetation at all except for cactus plants in straight, symmetrical rows along the drive, like some bizarre desert organized by a child. [...] It has been an unusually dry spring, though it doesn’t much matter here in Island Breezes, where the lawns are made of gravel. Some people, deeply missing the Midwest, have spray-painted their gravel green. (130-33)

5Kingsolver’s stories moreover represent another kind of estrangement by which minorities are excluded from mainstream America. The story "Rose-Johnny" indeed points to the ostracizing of blacks and homosexuals. In the eponymous story, Gloria recalls that owing to her Cherokee blood, "by each summer’s end [she] was so dark-skinned [her] schoolmates teased [her], saying [she] ought to be sent over to the Negro school." (14) In "Why I Am a Danger to the Public," the Mexican homodiegetic woman-narrator serves to voice the misogyny and racism prevailing in the industrial world, as she crudely reminds her fellow strikers: "Ellington would not have hired me in two million years if it wasn’t for the union raising a rackus about all people are created equal [...]. Or half of you either because they don’t like cunts or coloreds." (235)

6Single mothers are another minority, who, as expressed through Annemarie’s sense of separation, may feel left out as soon as they cannot fit in any slot designed by the codified world of the majority. Annemarie indeed feels as an exile in contemporary America, in spite of her white-Americanness: "Annemarie feels permanently disqualified from either camp, the old-fashioned family or the new. It’s as if she somehow got left behind, missed every boat across the river, and now must watch happiness being acted out on the beach of a distant shore." (133)

7In one of her autobiographical poems, Kingsolver furthermore refers to the sense of exile from oneself, as she has experienced on being raped. She recalls the traumatism by analogy to her friend’s burglared house: "I tell her I know, she will leave. I am thinking/ of the man who broke and entered/ me./ Of the years it took to be home again in this house I cannot leave." (Kingsolver, Another America, 37)

8Finally, many characters epitomize a sense of exile from their own relatives, partners; or friends that reflects a deep sense of loneliness and a painful incapacity to communicate one’s innermost feelings. In "Blueprints" for instance, as Lydia realizes she and Whitman have drifted apart, her understanding comes with a profound sense of estrangement: "She watches his hands and anus and feels he’s someone she’s never talked with or made love to." (28) In "Extinctions" Grace and Randall’s failure to understand each other are metaphorically expressed in terms of separateness: "There has always been this difference between them, a deep gulf she can’t swim." (169)

9In the end, just as one’s home country may be perceived negatively, as confining and oppressive, so may the home itself: "In Sacramento their friends referred to Lydia and Whitman as an institution. Now the word makes Lydia think of a many-windowed building with deranged faces pressing at the glass." (28) Home thereby no longer triggers a longing for it as a place of shelter and comfort, but, on the contrary, is associated with a wish to escape the boundaries of a home place perceived as a prison, where one is grounded and must obey the roles cast by the space one occupies:

The martyred wife, the absent husband. [...] Back when things were going well, when everybody was telling Whitman how evolved he was, the clichés of their parents’ lives seemed like a quaint old photograph you’d hang on the wall. Now it’s not so charming. Now it looks like one of those carnival take-your-picture setups with Lydia and Whitman’s faces looking out through the wholes. (29)

10The title story eventually revitalizes the dead metaphor in the expression "homeland," so as to suggest that one’s true home, in the end, is but the land itself. Indeed, the final vision of the story, abiding by Cherokee lore, poetically returns the bones of Green Leaf’s body, after her death, to the earth where she is buried: "As we turned our backs, the small people would come dancing and pick up the flowers [from her grave]. They would kick over the jar and run through the forest, swinging the hollow stems above their heads, scattering them like bones." (22) This last paragraph echoes the teachings of Green Leaf to the narrator, according to which flowers should not be picked for anyone to have, but "ought to be left where they stand." "You need to leave them for the small people to see" she explains. "When they die they’ll fall where they are, and make a seed for next year." (11) The ending thus implies Gloria has remembered her ancestor’s plea, to "give [the flowers] back to the ground," so that "[the] small people will come and take them back." (12) With Gloria’s retelling of her ancestor’s stories, her death is transcended as her cultural heritage goes on living through memory. Blending magic realism into her otherwise realistic story, Kingsolver moreover transcends the idea of death itself with the final, oxymoronic tableau—reminiscent of Georgia O’Keeffe’s paintings—in which she reconciles vegetal and human life, united in their common capacity for regeneration. As the flower seeds go back to the earth to be born again through nature’s endless cycles of life and death, so does the marrow inside the human bones, which may be perceived as the quintessence of life.

11Throughout the collection, the stories point to all life on earth as a Great Chain of Being, and thereby reminds us that ultimately, our true place of origin, to which we necessarily go back, is the earth itself. In Green Leaf’s words, "a flower is alive, just as much as you are. A flower is your cousin." (11) In Lydia, the biologist’s vision, "[the] bugs, and the plants too, are all related to her in a complicated family tree." (26) Oppressed at home, Lydia seems to find a more profound sense of belonging in nature: "She leaves town and walks through the hemlock forest, content to be among the mosses and beetles. ‘Bugs are our friends,’ Whitman says, mocking her, but Lydia feels this friendship in a more serious way than he imagines." (26) Lydia’s character finds a double in the narrator of "Covered Bridges," another biology teacher, who draws attention to the Transcendentalist undercurrent of Kingsolver’s writing: "I am a great gardener. [...] I feel that I commune with nature in the tradition of many thinkers: Thoreau, Whitman, Aristotle. My communion is simply more domestic. I receive inspiration from cauliflowers." (44) Beyond the sense of humour in these passages, both Lydia and the latter character read as spokespersons for Kingsolver herself, trained as a scientist, who specialized in evolutionary biology and ecology, which she relates to as a "religion."

12As contained in the oxymoron "homeland" our sense of belonging has its roots in culture ("home") as much as in Nature ("land"). Consequently, Kingsolver’s characters thrive for a sense of belonging within their community, but also within the larger macrocosm of the cosmos. Hence Jericha’s epiphany attained through the initiation rite in "Jump-Up Day," which brings her to a new compassion for all living things, as she discovers her Self at the center of the universe: "There were worlds under her feet, and over her head too—when they flew over the Pitons she had forgotten to look up. There is always something over your head and you’re never on top or on the bottom either, you’re in the center." (201)

13While most narratives tend to loop back in the end to their beginning, they also draw lines to vanishing points outside the previously designed territories. In "Homeland," the poetic ending delineates a new horizon, towards the forest and eternity. In "Survival Zones," the ouroboros motif expressing Roberta’s impression of stasis is finally superseded by the "sunbeam slanting through the west window." (118) Roberta’s newly found vanishing point takes her beyond her initial despair faced with "unwinnable battles against nature." (105) It is only in the end, as she plainly sees the meaning of her life, in spite of the "change of life" she is undergoing early (102), that she can entirely own up to her choices. The stories feed on the cyclic energy of natural life, and thus probe nature for symbols of metamorphosis—the butterfly, the egg, the trees and plants, the snake –, thus transcending the tragedy of our individual finitude through images of transformation.

14Finally, as the narrator in "Covered Bridges" concludes from the near-death experience of his wife, "Nature, red in tooth and claw [...] is only one way to look at it." (61) The reference to Tennyson, together with earlier ones to Nietzsche and Aristotle point to the cathartic effect of the short stories for the reader. Through empathy, the reader tends to gain knowledge and wisdom from the characters’ experiences. As they appear in the light of Nietzschean superheroes, we benefit from their enlightened acceptance of our human condition, and from their full adherence to the part of suffering and death inseparable from joy and life.

  • 2 "You’re right about Spider Woman—I’ve always been enraptured with her symbolism in mythology, and I (...)

15The metatextual dimension weaved into the story "Stone Dreams" implicitly provides the reader with a map of reading. Indeed, the text teaches us to pay attention to its symbols, and to favor paradigmatic, rather than syntagmatic readings. The reader is thus guided to probe the "fault lines," as one of the story titles goes, of the surface text. The metaphorical meaning of the trip to the Petrified Forest thus opens up, reading as a voyage to the unconscious of the protagonist, and revealing her own resemblance to Lot’s wife: "[...] they had no business calling this a forest. It reminded me of a Biblical disaster area—a tribe of toppled-over women who’d all looked back and got turned into pillars of salt." (97) Names of places acquire implicit significance, so that the apocalyptic crumbling of the petrified forest in the end, or of Diana’s unconscious, simultaneously announces her subsequent rebirth. Diana is indeed associated with Phoenix, Arizona, which cleaves the surface text and leads to the subtext of the mythical bird reborn out of its ashes. Furthermore, as confirmed by Kingsolver, the last vision of Diana and her daughter, the last two people "left standing in the desert, not looking back," implicitly alludes to Spider Rock in Canyon de Chelly, and to the creative, redeeming energy of Spider Woman.2 The standing mother and daughter indeed highly resemble the two side by side sand stone pillars of the monolith shooting up to the sky in the middle of the Navajo desert Canyon. The similarity is all the more striking because of the difference in height between the two pillars that are joined at the base and may thus represent a mother and her daughter.

16The falsely smooth surfaces of the stories in fact move along fault planes that bring about cataclysmic revelations. The earth quake in "Fault Lines," or the volcano motif in "Jump-Up Day" and "Extinctions," point to the cracks in the stories that announce the sudden epiphanies represented by the characters. The obsidian in "Stone Dreams" also functions as a symbol of revelation: "Obsidian is rare, and fairly precious. Technically it is volcanic glass, cooled suddenly to brilliance when it is pulled from the earth and thrown across miles of sky." (90-91) Following this seemingly scientific definition, the typographical blank shows the breach into the deeper meaning of the obsidian. Metaphorically, the stone refers to the stirring of the underground magma of the unconscious, suddenly concentrated into an epiphany, which rockets up to the level of awareness. The illumination brought about happens as the stone reaches the higher spheres of consciousness, and it acquires its brilliance as it is elevated to the sublime realm of imagination.

  • 3 In Last Stand: America’s Virgin Lands, Kingsolver calls attention to the essential function of the (...)

17The obsidian befits Kingsolver’s stories all the more for being semi-precious. Indeed, the double-edged quality of Kingsolver’s writing, both readerly and writerly, can make them seem semi-precious. Mostly, Kingsolver redeems the poetry of the quotidian, and her stories bring about sublime revelations out of seemingly prosaic characters leading rather ordinary lives. The swamp motif at the heart of "Blueprints" similarly draws on its Romantic symbolism as a kind of alchemical athanor that brings about the poet’s revelation. Once again, Kingsolver here welds scientific and mythical discourses about American landscapes, since the actual function of the swamp as environmental purifier and ecosystem redeemer is indeed evidenced today3. Kingsolver’s writing includes many metatextual clues so as to penetrate the fissures in the textual crust and gain access to hidden planes of significance. One of the major loci of these breaches lies in the names of characters and places. Even when using names that actually refer to extradiegetic reality, the places tend to carve secret arteries into the depth of the text. Such is the case with Phoenix, with The Petrified Forest, the Wupatki ruins, the island of St Lucia, or with fictional places such as Blind Gap, or Campbell—the latter drawing a bridge to the mythographer Joseph Campbell’s studies.

18Humankind, the collection reminds us, has in common with the rest of nature an internal capacity for memory, which, as Lydia puts it, "is something like a blueprint for life." (37) As the story "Blueprints" implicitly reveals, the unconscious imprint on one’s environment common to most animals and men accounts for the reproduction pattern Lydia sums up: "It’s frightening [...] how when the going gets rough you fall back on whatever awful thing you grew up with." (29) Such internal memory can be just as beneficial—as long as it serves a conscious, wilful transmission of a cultural heritage—as it can be dangerous—when functioning without one’s awareness, thereby forcing one to reproduce undesired patterns of behaviour. Yet, as the story "Blueprints" hints at, though leaves unsaid (27), the most important in the evolution from ape-to-man is man’s unique capacities to create symbols, to acquire self-consciousness, and, subsequently, to recreate oneself. Whitman’s name and gestures in the final tableau reveal his character’s status as a Romantic poet who sings, not the last song of the dying swan, but on the contrary, the song of his own rebirth as he creates a new language, and thus finally reaches across to Lydia, standing on the opposite bank of the creek:

[Whitman spreads] his arms like in the charade of a swan dive and shakes his head "no." He indicates a horizontal circle: that he will come around to where she is. She should stay there. He seems embarrassed. He points both hands toward Lydia, and then puts them flat on his chest.
They are using a sign language unknown to humankind, making it up as they go along. She understands that this last gesture is important, and returns it." (41)

19His shaking his head "no" signifies his refusal to sing the last song of the poet before he dies. As a matter of fact, when the story was first published in Mademoiselle in May 1989, its title was "The Lost Language of Love," tracing Walt Whitman’s poem, "Proud Music of the Storm," in which the poet hears "the wailing song / Song of lost love—torch of youth and life quenched in despair, / Song of the dying swan" (l. 87-89). Subverting the traditional meaning of the swan, Kingsolver’s diegetic Whitman overcomes his former muteness, gesturing and "inventing a sign-language unknown to human kind."

20Throughout the collection, Kingsolver’s writing glorifies creative language as the best survival strategy, and as the best way to bridge unwanted gaps. Literature appears as an open space where one is free to remap oneself, thus reclaiming the territories denied by reality: "We lived in Morning Glory, a coal town hacked with sharp blades out of a forest that threatened always to take it back. The hickories encroached on the town, springing up unbidden in the middle of dog pens and front yards and the cemetery." (2) Metonymically, "Homeland" operates the reclaiming of the earth by nature and Cherokee culture against so-called civilization. Kingsolver’s somewhat underground literature digs secret railroads of resistance, mostly against patriarchal encroachment over others’ territories. Hence, in "Homeland," the poetic victory of the narrative as suggested in Gloria St Clair’s name, and in the town of Morning Glory: "The creeping vines for which the town was named drew themselves along wire fences and up the sides of houses with the persistence of the displaced." (2) The stories furthermore hanker for the healing power of literature: "Even the earth underneath us sometimes moves to repossess its losses: the long deep shafts that men opened to rob the coal veins would close themselves up again, as quietly as flesh wounds." (2)

21The collection advocates peaceful resistance, as underlined also in the last story of the book, "Why I am a Danger to the Public," the title of which reads as metafictional irony on the part of the implicit author. In spite of the protagonist’s imprisonment, the text condones the superiority of being a "jail bird" rather than a scab. Her name, Vicky Morales, implies a moral victory. It thus echoes the victory of Gloria St Clair in Morning Glory, in the opening story, as well as the Bird Clan’s resistance to capture by the American government. Home and ideological freedom, in spite of removal and imprisonment, Kingsolver’s stories suggest, are essentially a heritage one internalizes and carries within oneself across the boundaries of space. Readers may indeed learn from the Cherokee Bird Clan who, despite their removal and flight, "had carried the truth of themselves in a sheltered place inside the flesh, exactly the way a fruit that has gone soft still carries inside itself the clean, hard, stone of its future." (2)

22To conclude, Kingsolver’s short stories try to point to man’s capacity to recreate oneself through artistic creation. Literature is indeed shown as a territory much explored already, but that may still forever be remapped according to one’s need to write oneself a place into the world. Her feminist, multicultural writing moreover contests the established mappings of patriarchal and rational concepts. Mostly, Kingsolver encourages one to search poetry for ever new horizons, as epitomized in the metaphor central to "Islands on the Moon," when Magda tells her distant daughter: "‘Seems like that’s just how it is with you and me. We’re like islands on the moon.’ ‘There’s no water on the moon’, says Annemarie.’ ‘That’s what I mean. A person could walk from one to the other if they just decided to do it.’" (146)

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Campbell, Joseph. The Hero With a Thousand Faces. 1949. New York: Bollingen Foundation, Princeton University Press, 1968.

Campbell, Joseph. Myths to Live By. New York: Penguin "Arkana," 1972.

Campbell, Joseph. The Power of Myth. New York: Doubleday Dell Publishing, 1988.

Campbell, Joseph. Thou Art That. Novato, California: New World Library, 2001.

Deleuze, Gilles et Félix Guattari. "Trois nouvelles, ou ‘Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé ?’" Mille plateaux. Paris: Editions de Minuit, 1980: 235-52.

Kingsolver, Barbara. Homeland and Other Stories. 1989. New York: Harper Perennial, 1993.

Kingsolver, Barbara. Another America/Otra America. [1992] Trans. Rebeca Cartes.

Kingsolver, Barbara. Last Stand: America’s Virgin Lands. Photographs Annie Griffiths Belt. Foreword Margaret Randall. Intro. B. Kingsolver. Washington D.C.: National Geographic Society, 2002.

Kingsolver, Barbara. 6 New poems. Seattle: Seal Press, 1998.

Whitman, Walt. "Proud Music of the Storm." Leaves of Grass. Philadelphia: David McKay, 1900. <>

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1 As a teenager, Kingsolver indeed felt as an outcast from her hometown’s social life in Carlisle, Kentucky. She then felt the need to attend University far away from home where she tried her best to get rid of her Southern accent. Later, she left home to explore the world abroad, living in Europe for a while, then moved back to the United States and travelled West, far away from home again. She ended up living some twenty years in Arizona, before deciding only recently to move back home in the Appalachian Mountains where she has her roots and back to her relatives. During the first Persian Gulf War, feeling estranged by the politics in her own home country, she temporarily expatriated herself to the Canary Islands. When she returned, it seems she had decided the struggle must be fought from within America, and that writing another America might provide the way out she had been seeking.

2 "You’re right about Spider Woman—I’ve always been enraptured with her symbolism in mythology, and I included Spider Rock as a reference to the female aptitude for creating new successes out of old failures." (Barbara Kingsolver, Letter, December 18 2003)

3 In Last Stand: America’s Virgin Lands, Kingsolver calls attention to the essential function of the swamp in maintaining a healthy environment: "Marshes transform the elements necessary to life, dissolving nutrients from decayed organic matter, infusing the land’s bloodstream with new vitality. They retain and remove pesticides and other toxins from the nutrient cycle, maintaining water quality downstream, their retention of carbon reducing global warming. The capacity of wetlands to store surface water is key to flood control and moderates seasonal stream flow between rainy and dry spells. Where nature is inconstant, wetlands provide stability." (Last Stand: America’s Virgin Lands, 29)

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Bibliographical reference

Bénédicte Meillon, « Barbara Kingsolver’s. Homeland and Other Stories about Another America », Caliban, 19 | 2006, 261-269.

Electronic reference

Bénédicte Meillon, « Barbara Kingsolver’s. Homeland and Other Stories about Another America », Caliban [Online], 19 | 2006, Online since 13 December 2016, connection on 15 May 2021. URL : ; DOI :

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Caliban – French Journal of English Studies est mis à disposition selon les termes de la licence Creative Commons Attribution - Pas d'Utilisation Commerciale - Pas de Modification 4.0 International.

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