ANYTHING TO DECLARE? VOL. 09
I’ve had a lot of difficulty writing as of late. Someone very close to me passed away. Close enough that people mistook us for one another on the street. Sounded-like-me close. Shared DNA kind of close. In the wake of it all, I want to share a brief thought.
The essays in this series have ruminated on a very practical, dictionary definition of immigration. Focused on moving and living in relation to physical countries across recognized borders and measurable distance. But there are other ways of moving life into unfamiliar territory, other types of migrants.
People who choose to go to therapy. People who confront their trauma. People who work to get clean. People who decide to get sober. People who go to rehab again and again and again, more scared and more embarrassed and more determined each time. People who come out to the world as something the world claims it can’t understand. People who leave a home that hurts them. People who venture inside their psyches even when it terrifies them. People who survive accidents or illnesses and must adjust to a body different from the one they inhabited before. People who find themselves living without the people they’ve built their lives around.
I think about those people. Though they may have never immigrated to a new country or even left their hometown, they know the rush, the fear, the unspoken urge to move towards an alien, uncertain life. For some, perhaps there was no urge to go but a sudden necessity to adapt — to learn a new normal. To navigate pathways their brain hasn’t had to orient itself in before. To attune to a language that forces habitual words out and ushers alternative realities in. Maybe you, dear reader, are one of those people.
I think about you. I’m thinking about you now. As an immigrant. A person who has permanently settled in a foreign way of life. A person who leaves what you know. I said in volume six of this series that “the word ‘immigrant’ should always be met with respect and the necessary implication of intelligence, resourcefulness and bravery.” When I say I think about you, this is what I mean. Intelligent. Resourceful. Brave. I hope you are finding solace in the new home you’ve built. And I also hope, more than anything, that you are safe.
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This is the ninth of a 12-part mini-series exploring my experience with immigration. It is edited by Ann Friedman. Read the previous installments or sign up to get the rest of the volumes delivered directly to your inbox here.