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.