Chilling with my home-ies

Home, sweet home, indeed

Three weeks of vacation (with a little work here and there) has me feeling philosophical.  More and more, I feel like 99% of life is the stuff that normally you do without really thinking about it.  The things that typically get taken for granted.  And maybe it takes a big event, something that’s shocking, terrifying, “earth shattering” in some capacity, to prick you into the level of awareness that reminds you of all those mundane details.  And inspires a sense of gratitude for them—the ones that remain, and a heightened sense of loss for those that are no more.  Coming home simulates this sensation in some ways; it’s like jumping into the deep end of the swimming pool on the first day of summer.

I haven’t ever owned a car.  My most frequent form of transportation these days is usually a rickshaw (which by the way, have made it to downtown Raleigh!). 

I’m one of those people for whom driving is a bit of a treat.  Especially when you combine it with the beautiful sunny weather we’ve been having down here in North Carolina this past week, the most recent Dixie Chicks cd, open roads, and fun relatives to go visit.  With the windows down, hair whipping on my face and neck, consistent whine of speed and power under my foot, I feel like I should be picking up Bobby McGee any moment (i.e. freedom is my middle name).  Hard to enjoy it completely given all the tragic road accidents that have affected people I know of or personally, both in Bangladesh and here in the United States, in the past few weeks.  Driving on the tail of these stories certainly creates a harsh reminder that life really can change in a minute.  And I guess that the best way to cope with that knowledge of our vulnerability is just to live now as much as possible.  Not in the “don’t put money into an IRA” kind of way, but in a “enjoy the causes for happiness that life throws your way” way, because no one ever knows what’s around the corner.

When I tell this driver the rates we pay for a ride in Dhaka,
we realize he pays more to rent the rickshaw for a night than
most rickshawallahs make in a week!

Moving around over the past few years and trying to determine my identity, which is in many ways dependent on where I am and how I’m different from the folks around me, has left me with this nagging insecurity that I’m not really southern.  And if the south doesn’t claim me as its own, then I’m a bit of an orphan.  So there’s a sense of relief when I come around a bend on one of these two lane country roads and spot tobacco, or corn, growing in the fields, and know what crop it is without thinking.  I may smirk to myself about the “original free will southern Baptist church” (sounds contradictory, right) or the “FUN knife and gun show” that’s coming up (evidently there are four a year so they never take down the sign, just change the date), but having had some time to stay in this pool long enough to get used to the temperature, it feels like home in a deeper way than I could have appreciated before I went abroad.   My family members are really the only people who have witnessed my whole life and watched me grow from a little girl who pulls the Christmas tree on top of her when no one’s paying attention to the woman I’m becoming.  They provide the reassurance that I have roots, perhaps in some sense the faith that I can go as far away as I want and when I come home, I still belong.  I can still go out for a run with my dad in the state forest, enjoy the Bojangles sweet tea that makes so many gag, make my cousins laugh.  And listen to the same stories that I’ve heard my whole life.  Or new ones that sound a whole lot like variations of the old ones (many begin, “So I was at grandmama’s last week, and….” Then a few days later you hear, “Stephen/Samantha/Connie was at my house last week….”).  So I won’t say that I’m not missing a lot by not being home, because I am, but in some sense I can catch up because I know it.  It’s part of me; in me even.  

Can't convince Stephen to go to the
Britney Spears concert for me, but
we can make a Starbucks run together.

I’ve got the gene that draws talkative strangers to me, makes me the talkative stranger in a lot of circumstances, a lack of radar for when I should be embarrassed (or rather too strong a will to embarrass others), deep stubbornness and pride, and a seemingly endless capacity for making jokes, particularly at the expense of my family members (no offense, but there are some easy targets!).  My kin kind of have (my mom would say that this should be "has") an obligation to put up with me and let me come home to them, but I feel fortunate that my family is comprised of such amazing individuals.  And watching my boy cousins grow from little people with big dreams into teenage boys with deep voices that tower over me and talk about girls, high school (and college plans!), etc. terrifies me.   Samantha and Dane, my oldest cousins, are full fledged adults.  Moreso than I am in many ways!  And it’s so fun to have the time to just sit and talk about whatever.  Fried bologna and cheese sandwiches at Bojangles.  

I stop by Grandmama's for lunch, but really
because I need some "So I was at
Grandmama's house the other day..."
stories to keep up!

How much Grandmama gets out of her free Frostee a day card at Wendy’s.  What to do about mental health policies in the United States.  Getting past a “single story” understanding of anything, whether its eastern North Carolina or Bangladesh.  Whether Duke will come in last or second to last in ACC football these year.  It’s not the details that are important, it’s the acts.  The quality of the time.

People ask me what I miss the most.  Sitting in a café, sipping on good locally roasted coffee, munching on a chocolate croissant….where do I start?  Can I say that I miss the quotidian, or does that sound pretentious?  That I miss belonging, feeling like I’m surrounded by people like me?  Or does that hide the other piece of the coin, the realization that the familiarity and knowledge only runs so deep.  Time away, and probably just time on its own has crafted me into what I’d consider a rather unique individual.  Like the MBA students that read hundreds of cases over the course of their program and then forever can call on those situations and characters in discussions with others, I’ve developed my own set of experiences and short-hands, from life, work, and a lot of books.  When driving along trying to figure out how to articulate how I feel, I decide it’s a cross of a Dixie Chicks’ song and a passage out of Atlas Shrugged.  But how to translate that to people who don’t speak Maria?  Here is an attempt at least.  

Love of ice cream may also be
genetic.  Free frostee card not
valid in Wake County, so we
went somewhere else!

I’m also reminded of Tim O’Brien’s book “The Things They Carried,” a great read.  Since I’m choosing to step out of the contexts that built me, I carry some image and some selection of memories of them with me.  Having the time to reflect and to just enjoy a few weeks of relaxing, I see now that it’s these little details, which I tend to forget over time, that I find most meaningful.  Eating cinnamon rolls at the breakfast table.  Kicking a soccer ball around in the driveway.  Getting in a debate with my mom that I’ll inevitably lose once she investigates and reports back.  At least my brother and I debate about unprovable things.  Like—is the Wire really a depiction of real life?  Deep stuff.

Cultural fusion!  Bojangles and "football"
at wrightsville beach.

But all that said, I am starting to chomp on the bit about getting back to my “home” in present tense.  I miss the adventures of life as a pedestrian in Dhaka.  I realized I hadn’t had a hot cup of tea in weeks this morning.  No goats, chickens, or cows are wandering the streets here.  No one’s called me “apa,” despite my wearing of the jersey that my super awesome football team got for me and all signed before I left.  In Bangladesh, it’s not that there are fewer causes for happiness, but there are more insecurities, more things that can go wrong.  Or perhaps more chances that things will go wrong, or fewer resources to fix them.  It’s not that I like living with higher risks, but in some ways my love of the simple things that are possible in a place like Cary, the ability to prevent and avoid so many senseless tragedies (though not all), is what drives me back.  “She who fights for a better tomorrow lives in it today.”  More Ayn Rand.  If I were going to take a 1000+ page book back with me, I'd definitely choose hers.  But instead I'm downloading good stuff to my kindle: Tina Fey's book, Jonathan Franzen, Tahmima Anam's latest.......other suggestions?

It’s nice to know that I can come back here, that this is here and real and an amazing place to be, and all I want for now is to have that to carry with me.  Luckily, even with all the random things I’ll be carrying back with me to Dhaka (air mattress, maybe a lava lamp, piano keyboard, grits, etc.), the memories and digital photos travel pretty well.

Speaking of which, if I don’t get to shopping at some point, my suitcase won’t be properly full!  Off to the mall—clearly the epitome of American culture that I’d be loath to miss during my cultural re-immersion.  

We welcomed my brother home this morning
with homemade cinnamon rolls!  He's the one wearing
the dress shirt.....