As someone who has moved around a lot, home has never been a place. That is theme in most of my novels as well as what it means to belong. Ironically, I love stories from people who have made a home in a different place. In this piece, so kindly written by my friend Kirsten Ellis, she shares what belonging in Birmingham means to her. I know you'll enjoy it.
How to Belong in Birmingham…?
“It’s like London, but not as crowded. And there’s actually more green spaces than you might think. It’s not like living in the country, of course, but for a city, it isn’t claustrophobic. And, I’m sure there will be lots of opportunities for me in the arts- there’s plans to move some big TV shows - like Masterchef - out of London and into the West Midlands. I could do whatever I want.”
That is how I described Birmingham to my family and friends back home when I first moved here. When I arrived with youthful optimism, giddy expectations, and hope.
…
It was warm the day I arrived in September, five years ago. I didn’t expect so much green, or blue. For some reason I still remember exactly what I was wearing: black leggings, bright blue trainers, and a faded pink top with criss crosses at the neck. A muddled up outfit suitable for carrying boxes up five flights of stairs. My new room with the view of the canal was surprisingly bright. Two narrow windows watched over the water; but the water was guarded by trees. I unpacked my boxes of books and a little cactus with a yellow flower. It smiled out of the window. A bird smiled back. My first ever flatmate knocked on the door, awkwardly extended an hand, and said, ‘hi’ in a Brummy accent. I said 'hi' back, just as nervous as him. With boxes semi-unpacked and a fridge shelf stuffed with ready meals, my parents said goodbye, and left. In the newfound silence of that matchbox room, I found myself staring out of the windows at the new arrivals rushing back and forth with cardboard boxes, suitcases and unknown expectations. In that moment of silence, I slunk away from my window and sat on the freshly made bed. I had to figure life for myself now. I had a whole new city to discover. I had no idea where to start.
Fast forward five years, and somehow my cactus is still alive and smiling out of the window on the fifth floor of my city flat. Even from here, when I stare out of the wide windows I can just about see the trees guarding the Vale. It’s September. New students will arrive soon. Once again I wonder who will be living in my old room. I picture them covering the blank walls with brightly coloured post-it-notes and submitting essays late into the night. I wonder if they will they make friends, or feel terribly alone? Or both.
I am no longer a student now, living in the safe bubble of a student world. When I look out my window now, it is so easy for me to become just another person lost in the din of the city. Commuting to work each morning, yet never saying hello to the same strangers passing you by; Sitting in a bustling coffee shop, but quietly reading a book; Saying ‘thank you’ without eye contact and ‘sorry’ without acknowledgment. Silence and noise churning round and round like a sitcom on mute. How can you feel so immersed and yet so lonely at the same time? When did the optimism fade away? Where has hope gone? I know where. Lost to the big career dream that doesn’t pay the rent. Lost to the friends who moved away and left you behind.
Throughout the years I’ve watched the trees fade from green to yellow to brown to green. I’ve admired the goslings and retreated in fear when the geese hiss. I know which way to exit New Street Station, the best bar for a drink on Friday night, and how to fake confidence during an important interview. But most of all, I have learnt that in order to survive in a big city, being intentional is key. Capturing the small moments when I’m alone like watching the ducklings swim with all their determination down the canal, to bringing the nice (but affordable) biscuits to work. Learning how my colleagues take their tea to saying ‘thank you’ to the girl who hands me my oat latte. Knowing that it takes time to carve out community so I must be patient, keep trying and remember that I am not alone in how I feel. Making friends is easy. Making meaningful connections is hard.
When I arrived five years ago, I thought the world was mine to conquer. Now, I realise that life takes a little more effort than I originally thought. Mondays are unavoidable. Each day there are fateful choices to be made. And there are times - many, many times- when everything feels like a never-ending battle. TV shows suddenly get cancelled, companies go bankrupt, and cars come out of nowhere. So the best thing, and sometimes the only thing I can do, is to approach it with a smile and take little steps towards the good thing that will happen each day.
In the five years I have lived here, I’ve asked if I belong too many times to count. But if I’m worried I’m disappearing, being swallowed up by the city, I remind myself of the day I arrived. Overwhelmed and sat on my bed, I knew the only way to survive was was to stand up, open the bedroom door, and be expectant for what the city had to offer. Be scared, and do it anyway. Have courage, and be bold. And then you might just find that there’s actually more green spaces in Birmingham than you think.