I was born in a foreign land.  Despite knowing the language, culture and diet, my heart does not belong.  I have felt more at home, more at peace and more myself in a world where the language is my second.  Or perhaps completely unknown.  I have felt the beautiful bliss of a free, examined life with my fingers kissing the wind, face pressed again a cool bus window and arms brushing the bark of unexplored paths than any moment walking the streets of Chicago.  Here, I have to search and strain for novelty in life.  Abroad, it comes effortlessly and in emotionally welcome waves.  My soul leaps at its gaze and I frequently stand eye-to-eye with my maker.  Whoever or whatever that is.  Between the  fast food comas and sugar highs, people are ablaze with the daze of indifference and frivolity- I feel lost.  An expat within my own country.  Wander, they say, but alas I have trapped myself in pattern of life and school for the next 4 years.  Community work is my primary indulgence and escape.  I seize the reigns like a baby chimp clinging to its mother as she swings from branch to branch.  Letting go would have possibly fatal options.  Culture is my muse; I welcome her daily and with fervor.

Who am I?  A breed of dissenting Americans who, despite being born in the States, does not feel American.


Victoria Falls, Zambia



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