Adrift

2022

Of my country and of my family

I have little to say.

(I learned it’s better not to name them anyway.)

I lived, for a while, in the almighty west,

in a country of freedom and hope,

one of the best,

whose people, unlike my people,

smile on the street, every day.

A land to be truly happy in (or else).

Historically, they don’t discriminate.

They are friendly

and welcoming

and open.

(They are smug about this, too.)

But they do point out,

on a friendly walk,

in a friendly talk,

that

there are expats, you know,

whom we want and welcome,

and immigrants, too,

whom we don’t.

Not so much, I mean.

Though we’re keen,

they come from worlds away,

and don’t fit in here, anyway.

And, they don’t even bother to learn English, like you do.

Uncertainty.

I know that my husband is an expat,

whom they courted,

oh, yes, whom they wanted

and welcomed and cheered for.

A highly skilled worker.

But I, what am I, exactly?

My country and my family. What else?

Someone who hasn’t found a job in years,

whose applications never get answers,

let alone invitations to interview,

for my skills are not high enough

or at least not while I’m in this country.

(They are high enough when I’m in mine,

I’ll find out later,

because it’s reasonable to think

that in my country

I won’t expect as much

money, respect

or happiness.)

I am

my country and my family,

whom I both love and despise.

(So how can I

expect

other people

to think of me otherwise?)

I am also

his country and his family,

holding him down,

holding him back,

whom they dub “the partner,”

a piece of luggage dragged along,

most often to be found in herds

of other such misfits,

who should be grateful to be here,

in this greatest place of all

(and do it sooner rather than later,

lest someone’s ego might get bruised).

Guilt.

Because I know I am, as they put it, worlds away

from being an immigrant, a really unwanted one,

one that they smile at condescendingly,

and put up with, barely.

Though I feel the unwantedness anyway,

pulling at my skirt all the time,

like a needy child.

And then someone dear tells me,

I’ve heard all your feelings and your worries

and frankly, they’ve become kind of tiresome.

Please, do hide some away.

You are

where you are

where is

your

sense

of

gratitude?

Shame.

To be in the land

of possibility

and still be impossible

in this tiresome way.

So, I hide myself

deeper away, tighter.

*

And then, one day, I come home,

to my country and my family,

longing for it, gasping for it.

And

home

is not home

anymore.

I should have known,

for it said so under a bridge

near the central station

back in Amsterdam,

the land of promise,

the land of despair.

My country and my family,

and myself,

drifting away,

in the black waters under that bridge

back in Amsterdam:

Terugkomen is niet hetzelfde als blijven.

I am a warped piece

that no longer fits,

a broken toy

teeter-tottering between

Why the hell would you come back here

and

Why the hell are you still unhappy

and

I told you so, I knew you would come back

and

Poor dear, so sad it didn’t work out for you

and

and…

And

to return is not the same

as not leaving at all.

I am just a lingering feeling

bruising the palate.

An afterthought.

Țara mea și familia mea.

Longing.

I miss being away,

misfitting and sad.

I miss my country

and my family

that I lost on the way.

Without them,

I am a fish on land.

When I’m in,

they pull me under, and I drown.

Going down!

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(Also published on Spillwords.com)