Outsider

In that drowsy interval between sleep and wakefulness, lying in bed with closed eyes, my lounging is interrupted by the charming squawk of a rooster.  It takes me a second to remember that it should be weird to hear a rooster.  That, in fact, I'm within the limits of a major American city, where we don't do roosters.

It's easy to forget that, because I also hear people talking outside, and I have no idea what they're saying, or even which language they're speaking.  I look out my window, and I don't recognize the clothes people are wearing.  I can't identify the smells coming from their open doors, or the foods they're drying out on their stoops, or the things they are doing.

There's the added complicator that I'm living among so many different languages and cultures that I can't just learn "here" in one fell swoop; it varies from house to house.

I try—and often fail—to figure out which people consider eye contact between strangers rude and which people find it friendly.  I wonder whether saying hello to that guy as I pass is fine, or a scandalous breach in gender-role etiquette that will be discussed for the rest of the day.  I'm never totally sure whether any given stare I'm receiving is because of my reddish hair, or because my shoulders (or knees, or head) aren't (or are) covered, or because I don't have a husband and kids, or because it's simply bizarre that a random American would choose to live in this little not-America.

Stared at, I am, though.  Always.  Through slats in mini-blinds or openly from doorways, my neighbors watch me.  It's not unfriendliness—just curiosity.  I am the outsider here.

I travel two blocks, and I'm back in America.  It's not quite my America, though.  Even there, the clothes, the accents, the driving habits, the expectations, the rhythm of life—they are different from what I know. There, too, I am an outsider.

The interesting thing—the tension I am experiencing—is that these two places are so different themselves that any attempt to fit into one takes me farther from the other.  I don't expect (or even want) to claim that either place is "mine," ultimately.  I can never "be" a refugee, and I have too much Northwest blood in me ever to "be" a Southerner.  I would like, however, to fit in, as the outsider-eventually-accepted.  I would like to figure out what my place is—as the mostly-monolingual white American amidst the refugee community and the crazy vegetarian Oregonian amidst the North Carolinans—in both "here"s at the same time.

And, while I am settling in fine and am at peace that coming here was the right thing to do, I'm still not exactly sure why I'm here.

"Okay, God, here I am."   - expectant face -

- long pause -

"... Now what?""

So far, there haven't been any visions or burning bushes, or even whispers (at least that I've heard).

I continue to wait.

While I wait, though, I am volunteering in a refugee ESL class twice a week, trying to make friends, and working crazy hours to make up for that expensive little vacation called "moving."

There are so many things to say and describe, and yet they are mostly still so unsettled in my own mind that I can't give them shape with words.  Know, though, there is more to come...