Even though I haven't been writing much fiction since my move, I still hear "voices in my head." (If you are a writer or friends with a writer, you understand me. If you are not a writer or do not often talk with writers, you might be reaching for a straightjacket. I'm not crazy: I know the voices are fictional characters, and I only listen to them when they tell me to get coffee.) Especially during my first weeks here, I heard a running internal monologue from a fictional immigrant. As soon as I heard her first words--"I am not trapped"--I knew that eventually I would write her story. But at the time, her words and experiences resonated too much for me to bear writing them, or worse, reading them. Many times in these past few months, I have told my friends, "I'm off to the coffee shop to write." And when they asked what I would write, I told them, "I've had this story idea in my head for weeks now. I need to write." Once I got to the coffee shop, I would open a new document, stare at it for a few moments, and then catch up on email. So, this weekend, instead of catching up on email (what I was supposed to be doing), I finally wrote it. Here it is: "Not Trapped" I am not trapped. Every morning, I remind myself this as I watch the sun rise over the water in brilliant beauty. Far below me, by the water is a park, peacefully drinking in the quiet light before the city wakes up and forgets this ineffable moment of stillness in the maddening rush to go place and do things. I long to slip downstairs and across the street to wander in the park. But I can’t. Uncertainty crowds out any pleasure the park would bring. The stress is not yet worth the reward. Leaving the sunrise behind me, I go to the kitchen and then sigh when I realize that I need to buy groceries. Back home, shopping was so fast and easy. I didn’t even realize how much independence shopping required. Here, I feel like a lost child. I linger over breakfast, putting off the day’s chore. Really, the wait just lets the tension build, so I grab my purse, shove my feet into my shoes, and leave the security of my apartment. The streets are already crowded with vehicles, but I hardly notice. Navigating my way around fellow pedestrians on the sidewalk takes more energy than I had previously thought possible. My purse knocks against a lady as I pass her. I open my mouth to apologize, but then shut it and keep walking. She won’t understand my words anyway. At the next intersection, I see two men in uniform on the other side of the crosswalk—police? Soldiers? Even though I have done nothing wrong, I feel nervous. I haven’t been here long enough to know all their traffic laws. What if I accidentally break a law without realizing it? When the crowd of pedestrians start to cross the street, I carefully position myself in the middle of the group and keep my gaze down as we pass the uniformed men. Tired by the time I reach the store, I can’t even think of what to buy. I know how to cook, and shop, and clean, and all of those chores that are so much a part of independent adult life. Moving to a new country showed me just how much mental labor is involved in those chores. Knowing what to buy and how to find them are skills I haven’t learned yet in this place. I know some of the language here, but what good does it do me? I know “grocery store,” but grocery store signs have business names on them, not “Grocery Store.” The same is true for restaurants and pharmacies and every other shop I would want. I know that these buildings are businesses, but I’m not brave enough to venture into the buildings to see what is inside. The only reason I know which one is the grocery store is because a friend showed me. And once inside, I can’t read the product labels. Most product labels don’t have just one word—“olive oil,” “sugar,” “salt.” No, they have a salesmen pitch on it and health buzzwords. And all those extra words swarm around the key words that I need to find. My mother back home has food allergies. How relieved I am that I do not have to read food labels as carefully as she does. And my brother is a picky eater. It’s good that I am the one who came here. When I buy the wrong food, I eat it anyway because I don’t feel like going back to the store in the hopes of finding the right thing. It takes me an hour to pick out the few items I need: soap, vegetables, and salt. I gave up on several items on my list, which is okay because I can’t buy much since I have a twenty-minute walk back to my apartment. Outside with my bag of groceries, I dodge vehicles and pedestrians, working my way through the parking lot to the sidewalk. Everyone else seems to know the rules for whose turn it is to go. I still haven’t learned these rules. And I do not know how to apologize when I break them. Back in my apartment, I put the food away. It feels nice to be in a space that I understand. I stare out the window down at the park below. It would be nice, I think, to walk around there for a while. Right now, I’m too tense and tired from shopping. Maybe tomorrow. After all, I’m not trapped.
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While I knew that juggling work and a transcontinental move would be taxing, I did not think so much time would pass before I continued writing. Even once I settled into my new home and new job, technology proved to be illusive at best. So, here I am at my new coffee shop (because what writer can write without a local coffee shop to hang out in?) and finishing a post I started over four months ago. (Actually, I don’t remember where I was headed with that post, so I’ll table that one for a while longer.)
Although the busyness of moving was the main reason I stopped writing, another reason was that so much of my life had changed, but I wasn’t ready to let my writing change. Just as I knew that my new home would change me, I knew that if I wrote during this transition that my writing would change, too. And, well, I was sort of afraid that those changes would be permanent. In additional to the schedule change, I’ve had a huge change in my social life. For the first time in my adult life, more often than not, I have dinner plans with friends who love a long sobremesa as much as I do. As much as I enjoy blogging, having regular dinner conversation has been rejuvenating. In fact, as I sit here writing this, I’m juggling three different conversations on social media as we decide the who, what, when, and where for our dinner plans tonight (Korean bbq at 5:00, if anyone’s interested). After a four-month break from writing, I am relieved to return to it. Certainly, my mind is full of different topics and perspectives, but the act of writing is the same. Now that I am writing again, I feel more like I am home here. I feel more like me here. This post is a little shorter than usual, mostly because I’m not sure anyone is still reading my poor abandoned blog. Although I abandoned it for a while, it certainly never left my mind, and I am happy to be back. |
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