in which the “I” returns, and me too

This post might offend some of you who I know are God-fearing and against swearing and asking mutinous questioning and some of you might be offended because of the religious references I will be making. But I will count myself blessed if any of you do get mad at me for writing what I am going to write, because that means I know people who hold different beliefs and stand for what they believe in.

When substantial events take place, the shockwave usually takes a while to reach their full circumference, whether in a body of water or the post-mushroom-cloud tree-rings on the ground. With the weekend to absorb the scale of impassivity of the immigration services, my mindset is somewhat back to the normal weekday schedule, aided in no small part by the laudanum of work. I was holding in so much tension this past weekend you could have bounced a cotton ball a considerable distance off of me. The dramas of immigration flares up like recurring cancer, absorbing all of my energy and focus and throwing my mental state back to me at age eleven and holding out my passport to be stamped: APPROVED(?) I know the allegory is probably protracted, a little too dramatic, maybe. I kept the notice letter at arm’s length, circling back to it, pawing it like a mouse testing a trap, looking at the word subject, putting it aside again, testing it with my tendrils, until the word cooled down enough and I could bear to touch and face it with without bursting out in tears again.

A few days, and so many of you have shown me that I am not defined by what I can do, or what a piece of paper says what I am worth, and wrapped me with words of love and kindness and support that the unseen wound is staunched. It’s the long-distance calls, the emails from the end of the world, the surprise visits, the wine being poured into glasses—a lot of glasses—and the laughter past midnight, the pulsating conversations in my living room that flowed like spring breeze and cleared away the dregs of winter, the half box of Kleenex and trying to explain the same things in a lot of languages. My God, two of you even offered to marry me. It wouldn’t help, but I thank you. I can hardly believe I am loved this much. My family and I are working toward another alternative. Nothing is set in stone, but there is hope.

I was raised to not make a scene, to stay out of trouble and not trouble anyone with my troubles. So when I have to bother people with getting documentations and explaining the various types of Visas—collect one in each letter and win a citizenship!—and what I have been told to do and what I think I want to do I feel embarrassed and needy. It ends up being all about me and I don’t want the world to be about me. But as much as I want to be independent and hassle-free and for crying out loud, normal, this is about my sorrows and my frustrations and my lamenting against God with WHY DO I NEED TO DEAL WITH THIS BULLSHIT?! So much for my aim to diminish the me and bring forth the you.

Any maybe that’s why I am writing with all the capitalizations in place. For now. Because I realize that these human experiences are about me, and you, and how we each process our feelings and obligations and trying to make them make sense, trying to connect with other people because our bodies and feelings and actions and thoughts are the vessel by which we translate the world to each other.

Is this why we blog? To leave a signature in cyberspace so people know that we exist? To disseminate our thoughts and refreshing the page every so often to see who’s clicked the buttons with the stars and plusses and shares and follows? I haven’t decided if we blog to feel less lonely.

It’s getting late and thousands of keys are clicking and making pixels on screens and I don’t know if any of the operators of the clicking keys feel the same incurable paradox of being human. It is morning halfway across the world and my father worries about me on and off and I him. Funny how we grow up and realizing being a parent is not all that easy of a job. Does thinking of a person chisel off a bit of their solitude? Ours?

All I want to say for now, is thank you, for being here.

photo credit: Pinterest

photo credit: Pinterest


One thought on “in which the “I” returns, and me too

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