Going home for the holidays always makes me feel like an actor, stepping foot on a movie set. The lights come on all at once, the smell of familiar dishes lingers in the air, and I’m suddenly overtaken by a chorus of voices talking over one another. It almost seems like every family member has a role to play, a costume to put on, and a line to run the moment I cross that threshold. There’s a wide roster of characters: the “Grandma Who Hates Cooking but Refuses Help in the Kitchen”, the “Uncle Who Tells Bad Jokes”, the duo of “Cousins Who Catch Up on a Year’s Worth of Gossip in One Night”, the “Mother Who Takes Pictures of Everything and Everyone”… Tonight, we’re all reprising old roles and, since I’m the “Granddaughter Who Left Home To Live Abroad”, I have to convey a very particular set of emotions. If a movie director were to witness my talents, I’d be cast in a film on the spot.
Since I left Madrid, the city that watched me grow up, I’ve lived in Amsterdam and Barcelona, and I’ll be moving to Brussels soon. Despite having hopped around quite a bit, I moved away at 18 and am now 24, so it hasn’t even been that long. Still, every time I come back to my hometown, we all perform the same carefully crafted choreography. My family made a massive effort to help me pursue my dreams, so they expect a detailed, excitement-filled account of my life, always delivered with a smile and a hint of gratitude. It isn’t easy to keep up this facade when the past year and a half could be better described as surviving rather than thriving, but I do my best to play the part. Juggling full-time work with a Master’s degree while trying to settle in a city that never quite felt like home has been truly challenging, so I’m not lying when I say my performance is Oscar-worthy. If I could hand myself a trophy for “Best Actress in a Familial Drama”, I absolutely would.
Every holiday has its recurring plotlines: the cry for help when nobody has started setting the dinner table, the discussion over what TV channel we’ll put on as we fulfil the Spanish tradition of eating twelve grapes, the reminder that we shouldn’t talk about politics at the dinner table, the questions about boyfriends and girlfriends and whatnot…These scenes are so predictable that I’m convinced everyone receives a script a week before I arrive. I always wonder what it’s like for others: are their family dynamics just as intense? I bet most people ask themselves this exact same question while sitting at the dinner table.
Somehow, despite the warning, the conversation always finds its way back to politics. Usually, it begins with my grandad defying traditional gender roles and saying, “Darling, you know so much about the world, why do these things happen?” The camera pans dramatically to me. My mum takes her cue and shifts uncomfortably in her chair, knowing I’m about to use my academic background in politics to contradict whoever comes my way, while the men at the table lean back, ready for a debate they’ll later blame me for starting. Of course, despite having studied for 5 years and having earned two university degrees, I cannot escape the “she’s just too young to understand” trope.
At this point, we transition to my least favourite scene: The One Where They Ask Me About My Plans For The Future. If the politics segment is a lively ensemble cast interaction, the future-plans interrogation is an intense monologue I never agreed to deliver. While they ask endless questions, I resist the urge to get back into a political debate about how governments are failing young adults, the impossible job market, or how the housing crisis is draining my savings. Instead, I improvise something that sounds coherent enough to convince my half-drunk relatives and move on to complimenting the food once more.
Once it’s time to leave, “we’ll miss you” is often replaced with “you don’t call us enough”, without consideration for the fact that I work 42-hour workweeks and barely have time to wash my hair or do my laundry (or that they, too, have phones). Nonetheless, I always feel regret that I haven’t been a good enough daughter, grandchild, cousin, niece, or sister. Calling my family more often is always in my top 3 New Year’s resolutions. Whether I follow through or not is another story entirely.
As I roll my suitcase out the door, I feel the familiar mix of relief, affection, exhaustion, and guilt. Back at home, I play a role I outgrew years ago: the responsible daughter, the promising student, the one who is always grateful. Abroad, I get to improvise, rewrite, and blur the lines of what was and what is, adding up to a version of myself that I never quite manage to bring to the table when surrounded by Christmas lights and eager eyes. I leave the set, the lights dim, and I return to the life I’ve built elsewhere while still mulling over my performance: the lines I didn’t deliver quite right, the scenes I wish had gone differently, the pressure to give an award-worthy performance. And yet, year after year, scene after scene, I always yearn to go back. Because deep down, despite the chaos and pressure, and the annual feminist lecture I never intended to give, there is comfort in knowing that when I walk onto that set, everyone already knows their lines, but nobody will judge me if I miss mine from time to time. Maybe that’s what’s special about building your life in two different places: your identity becomes a script in constant revision, never quite finished.
Image by Lucía López
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