Parenthesis
"For being a foreigner, Ashima is beginning to realize, is a sort of lifelong pregnancy--a perpetual wait, a constant burden, a continuous feeling out of sorts. It is an ongoing responsibility, a parenthesis in what had once been ordinary life, only to discover that that previous life has vanished, replaced by something more complicated and demanding."--from The Namesake, by Jhumpa Lahiri
But what is it like to be a foreigner in the land where you thought you belonged, because that's where you were from, where you grew up, where you lived...until one day you went away, and everything changed?
When I came back from my travels--and I mean came back at last, because when I first arrived back in the United States "for good," there was still a lot of going here and here, including the East Coast and the Bay Area, and eventually I even went as far as Egypt, Jordan, and Israel and going to the Middle East was like going to the moon in some ways, and yet not in others--but when I really and truly came back, I felt more lost and homeless than I had ever felt on my many travels. For here I was, where everything finally was familiar again, and yet it was all completely strange. I didn't know what to do with it, what to do with myself, and what to do with everyone else. I had forgotten how to live with my suitcase packed away empty in a closet.
Sometimes I think to myself, "I want to go to that cafe that I went to with so-and-so once, what was the name?" And then I remember that the cafe, as well as so-and-so, is in Titirangi, in New Zealand, and there is no way of getting there in time to watch the sun go down and still get home in time for work the next day.
And then there was my first view of Cairo, from the plane. All I could see was brown desert, brown buildings, and an absolute forest of brown satellite dishes. The pyramids gleamed golden at the end of the wing as the plane banked for the landing.
I have black sand from Karekare beach in a little bottle on my desk, next to another bottle that has red sand from Petra. The sand from Petra used to carry the scent of Jordan with it--a scent of dust, of the Bedouins, of ancient beauty. Now it smells like nothing at all.
One day I was cleaning out my backpack and found rocks that I think are from Israel, but it's hard to know. They look like ordinary rocks to me now.
This evening I lay down to rest, and suddenly I was walking across the field near the dairy in Oxford, New Zealand. I tell you I could feel the grass under my feet, and I saw the little yellow flowers scattered through the green, just as I did on a lazy afternoon, how long ago now?
Every now and then I still go into a momentary panic when I pull out of my driveway, because I am not sure anymore which side of the road I'm supposed to be driving on.
Someday I will tell the story of my near-death experience while riding a donkey on a street in a Bedouin village. But not tonight.
But what is it like to be a foreigner in the land where you thought you belonged, because that's where you were from, where you grew up, where you lived...until one day you went away, and everything changed?
When I came back from my travels--and I mean came back at last, because when I first arrived back in the United States "for good," there was still a lot of going here and here, including the East Coast and the Bay Area, and eventually I even went as far as Egypt, Jordan, and Israel and going to the Middle East was like going to the moon in some ways, and yet not in others--but when I really and truly came back, I felt more lost and homeless than I had ever felt on my many travels. For here I was, where everything finally was familiar again, and yet it was all completely strange. I didn't know what to do with it, what to do with myself, and what to do with everyone else. I had forgotten how to live with my suitcase packed away empty in a closet.
Sometimes I think to myself, "I want to go to that cafe that I went to with so-and-so once, what was the name?" And then I remember that the cafe, as well as so-and-so, is in Titirangi, in New Zealand, and there is no way of getting there in time to watch the sun go down and still get home in time for work the next day.
And then there was my first view of Cairo, from the plane. All I could see was brown desert, brown buildings, and an absolute forest of brown satellite dishes. The pyramids gleamed golden at the end of the wing as the plane banked for the landing.
I have black sand from Karekare beach in a little bottle on my desk, next to another bottle that has red sand from Petra. The sand from Petra used to carry the scent of Jordan with it--a scent of dust, of the Bedouins, of ancient beauty. Now it smells like nothing at all.
One day I was cleaning out my backpack and found rocks that I think are from Israel, but it's hard to know. They look like ordinary rocks to me now.
This evening I lay down to rest, and suddenly I was walking across the field near the dairy in Oxford, New Zealand. I tell you I could feel the grass under my feet, and I saw the little yellow flowers scattered through the green, just as I did on a lazy afternoon, how long ago now?
Every now and then I still go into a momentary panic when I pull out of my driveway, because I am not sure anymore which side of the road I'm supposed to be driving on.
Someday I will tell the story of my near-death experience while riding a donkey on a street in a Bedouin village. But not tonight.
posted by grackyfrogg @ 7:17 PM
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