Nostalgia

For about a year now, I've been getting these attacks of nostalgia, particularly for moments back in New York. These little attacks just happen out of seemingly nowhere: I'm going about my daily business when all of a sudden--BAM!--a memory hits me from out of nowhere and stops me in my tracks. This has always happened to me. I can remember being in the middle of folding socks as a young teenager, around thirteen or fourteen, and some sort of humiliating memory popped back up and I realized I had totally stopped folding socks and was just sitting there. Remembering. That time the memory was tinged with humiliation, but it's not always. Sometimes it's regret or joy or sorrow or laughter, but it's always demanding. I remember when I first started reading the Dune series, a collection of books that forever changed how I thought and viewed the world, that they mentioned the adab, "the demanding memory that comes upon one of itself," and I finally had a name for this phenomenon.

It's ironic that these adab are of New York because it's because of something like them that I left in the first place. After ten years there, the city had changed so much. People had left, businesses had closed, and the entire geography and culture of the city had seemed to change as a result. I would walk down streets and constantly travel though my memories: seeing the corner vegetarian restaurant that had closed down in East Village in favor of a tenant who could pay higher rent and never came to set up shop, a conversation I had with a stranger who convinced me to keep pursuing theatre in the middle of Lincoln Square when I was unsure, the fun parties in the lobby of the Hudson Hotel and the time that my walk of shame the next morning included my Intro to Spanish Literature class smack dab in the middle. I was constantly being haunted by these ghosts, and after a moment, it became overwhelming.

Oh look, it's that memory again..,

And now, like a horror movie, the ghosts have followed me here, to the other side of the Earth. Though this time, instead of running from them, I almost welcome them, because now when the memories come of themselves, they bring with them a bittersweet taste, a nostalgia that wasn't there before.

I think these memories are a means for my mind to try to integrate who I was with who I am now. I'm becoming a much different person than I used to be. I've decided to prioritize different things in life, like language learning and my writing, for example. I'm not nearly as interested in going out and partying (though don't get me wrong, one weekend out of four, I'm all about it), and generally, I prefer to stay home unless I have something out of the ordinary to go see, like an exhibit at the museum or a festival.

But when I think back on New York, despite being taken in by more "distractions," I feel like I was doing a lot more with myself: I had a theatre company, I was translating literature, I was going to school for my bachelors, all on top of having a job, going out with my friends, occasionally playing video games and volunteering for something random around the city. These days, I feel like I'm doing less, and on top of that, I have a lot less energy. In Colombia I started drinking coffee regularly, and now I feel like I rely on it (even if it's nothing extreme, I'm told, just a couple cups a day), and I'm always feeling worn out at the end of the day. I have a full-time job for the first time in years, but I'm struggling to fit in time to do other things I need and want to be doing while still finding time, and more importantly the energy, to be social and partake in leisurely activities like video games. I haven't touched a game in months, which a younger, former self could barely imagine. I sometimes wonder if this is a natural part of aging or if there's something I'm doing differently. But if I am doing something differently to get in my own way, what is it? If anything, I'm getting more sleep and eating better, so that can't be it. I drink much less as well. Everything I'm doing should be pointing to having much more energy, but it's just not the case. It frustrates me because I went from producing works of art to just kind of having a hobby in languages, and for better or worse, my self-esteem depends on what I'm working for and on, and if that's nothing, then it's hard for me to be happy with myself.

In Dune, when talking about adab, a character (perhaps Lady Jessica?) mentions that when these memories come, they have something to tell us; they demand our attention for a reason. Perhaps their purpose is not only so I can make peace with the new person I'm becoming, but also to make sure that as I change, as I grow older and truly come into full adulthood, that I make sure to take the best aspects of my twenties with me: the feeling of newness, of hope, of magic! that I feel slipping away little by little. Perhaps the reason that I'm tired is because even if I'm sleeping, I've, somewhere along the way, stopped dreaming. And these ghosts, these adab, are an attempt to remind me of that, like when you suddenly have a flash of your dream from the night before.

It's time to snap out of the coma.

And wake up into my next dream.

Lament for the Inauguration

I watched the Inauguration Friday night from here in France with another American friend and with each of our French partners. I know that a good deal of people vowed to boycott the inauguration's broadcast, and I totally respect that and hope that we can move on to ignoring his tweets next. However, I needed to see it. Not to watch it as entertainment or to trivialize or condone the beginning of a four-year mess, but to stand witness. To attend the funeral. No one goes to a funeral because they think it's going to be fun; they do it because they know they have to. They have to so that they can, on one hand, be there to stand witness to the suffering of others (which is an often underrated response) and on the other, to get closure for themselves. And that's how I approached this inauguration: a funeral.

I've been outside the United States for practically the whole election process. I've been on the other side of the world, far away from everything, only hearing what average people are saying via tourists and Facebook. With an ocean stretching between us, it almost doesn't feel real. If I imagine really hard, I can almost trick myself into thinking that it's not really happening: I'm just having a bad dream that I'm confusing with a memory, or that it's the TV show I'm obsessed with that week just spilling into my day-to-day thoughts. But then I remember the very real people who support him, some of them among my own family, and I'm back to reality.

It was my first time watching an inauguration from start to finish. My interest in politics is something that has been slowly picking up steam since adolescence, but it didn't really become the kind of obsession it is today until I ventured outside of the United States, which makes it really just an extension of my own self-interest, I suppose. Since I started following politics in any meaningful way, there have only been three inaugurations: two for Obama, and one for George W. Bush. I was obviously in no rush to watch Bush's inauguration, and for Obama's, I saw clips and images, but I never really made it a priority to watch. The inauguration is all just ceremony. I could watch the ceremony or I could spend that time reading up, educating myself, talking to people, all things which I consider a better use of my time.

One of the first things that struck me was how much religion was a part of the ceremony, which seemed strange and out of place, and later a quick Google search allowed me to confirm that it was indeed abnormal with a record breaking six religious speakers. I expected a prayer. Even if I don't really like the idea, it is the United States, but that was really it. Instead, it was practically a church service. I was as pleased to see subtle and not so subtle hints from certain religious leaders at keeping America a land that welcomes everyone, as I was displeased to have to endure the babble of prosperity gospel televangelists.

Actually, to be honest, I didn't. That's when my friend and I took a break and did a couple shots of tequila because what's a funeral without heavy drinking?

But in all seriousness it was horrifying, and at times overwhelming to watch. Trump's speech in particular. Hearing him attempt to masquerade as a movement for the people, telling them that this was "for them" made my stomach turn and my heart broke for the second time. I had to excuse myself away to cry in the bathroom. Again. It was the morning after election day all over. It's still incredible to me that people can't see him for what he is: a con man. In business he's been nothing but a liar, and as a so-called politician, he will do the same. I mean, am I the only one who can hear it? It makes me feel like I'm going crazy. I feel like I'm watching the United States going up in flames and people are either joking about it (in France, not really so much in the US) or they're cheering on their own destruction.

Even still, I have so much hope. Because for all the people who do support him, there are even more who don't, and a lot of them, many of whom I'm proud to call my friends, are demonstrating and manifesting and protesting and fighting back in any way they know how. So many people refuse to let the ideals of our country die a quiet and easy death, and I sometimes think that maybe this has woken everyone up. Now that some of those who were apathetic before have seen how bad things have gotten, they've finally snapped out of it and are mobilizing. So yes, I watched the inauguration as a funeral, but this isn't the end. Just as death is not an end. It's a change of form, and I hope that our next form is more glorious than we can imagine in this seemingly bleak moment.

I sound like a Martian in both English and French

There are certain things you become painfully aware of when you're living in a country that's not your own. I know it's an obvious observation, but it's true in ways you can't even imagine, even something as ignored but as intimate as your voice. I've never been so conscious of the way I speak, and I don't mean just in French.

Before continuing I must fully confess an important but embarrassing detail for those reading this who have never heard me speak French: My accent in French is thick. It's not so thick that people can't normally understand me, but it is quite obvious from the look in strangers' eyes that it hits them in the face with all the force of an elderly lady's generous application of perfume. However, seeing just the uneasy look in a stranger's eyes is the kindest of reactions. Among the worst is when they respond in English, which in US culture amounts to a (mild or not so mild) form of bigotry. If you're not sure what I mean, imagine the reaction of someone responding to a Hispanic person in broken Spanish (HHHOLAH) and repeatedly calling them their "amigo." It makes you cringe, doesn't it? I live a similar situation here in France. This happens regardless of the persons skill in English. Such as the time when, midway through the transaction, the cashier decided to switch to English but only managed to repeat "She.... She.... She..." over and over again. Or the time when I was ordering in Subway, where the menu items are in English, and they couldn't understand my pronunciation of English words (but could understand the French words), decided my French was bad (the irony!) and then tried to switch to English, which failed as spectacularly as you are probably imagining. It's worth noting, without writing a blog entry of its own, that the problem lies not really in the person's skill in English but in the othering and lack of acceptance of someone who's clearly trying to integrate into your country, but I digress...

All of this up until now, you could probably expect, but it doesn't stop there. Even in my own native language, my speech and accent is the subject of unease. At work, I'm constantly told that, "The American accent is difficult," as if there's only one American accent in a country that is between 14 and 15 times the size of France.

"You don't speak English; you speak American," is another one I hear often, as if I speak some kind of English pidgin. I'm not sure if this is just a weird linguistic quirk since they do, after all, call Canadian French (roughly translated for the French-impaired) "Quebecian" (Quebecois). But when you consider that they often put down Quebec's accent and dialect, maybe it's not some weird linguistic thing where they have the habit of referring to dialects instead of language, and French people are just completely unfamiliar of the idea with language plurality. It's ironic to think that in the US, we laugh at people as uneducated when they say they speak "American," and here, when I tell people I speak "English, not American," I'm considered the incorrect one.

I know this sounds highly sensitive, like I should just get over it. Don't worry. Plenty people of told me this--most of them French--which is why I don't really discuss this with them anymore. At a certain point, it seems fruitless. When you've had the same conversation a thousand times with the same result, why bother? And truthfully, the first times that it happens, it wasn't so bothersome, but it's like being tickled. After first it's funny, but slowly but surely it stops and before you know it, it's unbearable. So I'm trying to develop a thicker skin. It helps that this most often happens at work, and I just have to grin and bear it in the name of being professional.

Now, a year later, it's old hat. Yes, it was fun for a moment to be "the American" at the party, but eventually after the 700th joke about hamburgers and how fat we are or the 345th tongue-in-cheek comment guns, or fucking Donald Trump, it gets old. It also doesn't help that all of these things are serious topics that I worry about at night because I care about my country (well, maybe hamburgers aren't so serious) but they're just jokes to them. Feeling like the visiting ambassador from the "New World" is fun, but eventually you want to be part of the group, not the invited guest.

Well, at least he didn't have a gun, right?

People always ask me what crime was like in New York and Colombia, if I felt safe, if there were a lot of pickpockets, and my answer is always the same, "If you pay attention, you'll probably be fine. Something can always happen, no matter where you are and no matter how many precautions you take. Sometimes you just have bad luck, but in general, it's not as big of a concern as you'd imagine." In New York, I often mention that for cities of its population size, it's one of the safest in the United States. The question used to most often come from concerned Hoosiers who viewed NYC as the "the big bad city," which made it ironic that the one time I was held at gunpoint in my life was while I had come back to Indianapolis for my Aunt Andrea's funeral.

In the ongoing bizzaro world situation of Le Mans basically being the French Indianapolis, people often ask me the same question here, and as of last night, just like in Indianapolis, I had another unnerving experience. Jeremy and I had gone out with friends that night, and we got home pretty late. We had stayed up, talking and discussing, when there was a knock at our door. Neither of us were all that shocked. I immediately assumed it was probably a friend who had accidentally left something behind at our apartment before going out to the bars.

Jeremy looked through the peep hole, assumed it was a neighbor and opened the door. The man, who was about our age and whose face was difficult to see with his hood up, started to try to walk into the apartment. Jeremy, reacting quickly, pushed him out and slammed the door shut. The man pushed on the door, and we quickly turned the deadbolt, which lead him to start grabbing and turning the knob. I was still a bit shocked and looked at the door, and distinctly remember feeling cornered and not really sure what I could do to get him to go away. So I slammed my hands on my side of the door, which made a rumbling sound through the building, and yelled "I'm calling the police!" which I'm sure was so very intimidating in my awkward American accent.

I turned to Jeremy and told him to call the police because right after I said I was going to call the police, I became aware of an embarrassing detail: I never really committed the emergency numbers in France to memory. He was on hold with them for what felt like some time, and when he finally speaks to a person, he was told "just don't open the door" and "everyone's getting broken into tonight." The police never showed.

Equally effective

Sometime during the police call, the man stopped messing with our doorknob and went up to another floor. Jeremy turned off the light, and I crouched down in front of our windows that open onto the street. I flashed back to the time I had been in the proximity of a shooting (also in Indianapolis), and while, stupidly, the majority ran to go watch, I moved away from the windows and to the back of the store I was in. I did the same here, and it was only until I had calmed down that I realized it was extremely unlikely he had a gun, unlike in the US. Meanwhile, Jeremy had opened a window to look out onto the street, and I pulled him back in by the shirt and shut the windows. 

We both continued to watch, and we saw the man eventually leave our building. A car pulled up and the hooded man talked with a woman (who we're pretty sure lives in our building). After their talk (which I couldn't understand), the hooded man got in the car with a bunch of others and the care drove away, and we breathed a sigh of relief. 

Afterward, we began to sort through the facts, and Jeremy decided that he was probably someone who lived in our building but had got confused about which apartment was his since he was probably extremely drunk. In the end, he probably meant us no real harm and was just so drunk he had no idea what he was doing or where he was, but the entire experience was unnerving to say the least, if for no other reason than it reminded me of past experiences. It's been a couple days since, and I still feel a bit paranoid. When I walk around at night, I'm nervous that I'll run into him, and when I wake up in the morning or come back home, I have the irrational fear that he or someone else will be there. Like I said, he probably had no intention to rob us; he was probably just some drunk guy who didn't know where he was or what he was doing, but these things stick with you for a while. When I had a gun held at my face while someone demanded my money, I was nervous for weeks to walk around on the street, even though it was a completely different city. I imagine I'll have a few more days of being nervous. Regardless of the circumstances or motivations, there's something about a home invasion that shakes a fundamental part of you because it challenges what we all believe deep down: that you're unquestionably safe in your home. But hey, at least that means I know now I have a home.

I made a mistake

So, it turns out that maybe I made a mistake. I shouldn't have quit writing this blog. It's been almost a year, and I have been feeling a hole in my life since my only outlet for writing was social media. Facebook as an outlet for creative impulses isn't very satisfying at all; it's just ephemeral snippets. It's like you're starving and all you eat is cotton candy. You get a taste of something sweet, but it dissolves in your mouth before you've even swallowed and you realize you're getting no nourishment at all. It's just empty calories. Creatively speaking.

This blog did so many things for me at once. Writing about what I think and what I observe in the world was a way to digest it and learn from it, to arrange the information and make sense from it. In this way, this blog was my alienist. I lied on a couch in a darkened room and let loose what was on my mind that week. I explained my problems, my joys, my frustrations, then I added some gifs and posted it in the faux-anonymity of the Internet. Emphasis on the faux because, as it turned out, people were listening, which made it a way to let you into my life and to continue to share moments with people who were important to me. A good deal of the people who read my blog were friends who I now live far away from because–spoiler alert–I'm still in France, and writing a weekly post was a way to bring you all along with me, which I wish I could do. I miss you all.

So, that being said, I'm bringing it back: Season Three, An Expatriate Without A Country (a bit in homage to the brilliant and unforgettable Kurt Vonnegut Jr.), the long-term season. I hope you all join me.