Leaving home's a cinch

"Leaving home’s a cinch. It’s the staying, once you’ve found it, that takes courage." --Catherine Watson

Since graduating from college four years ago, I've lived in seven apartments in five cities. On average, I move twice a year. I've moved in with total strangers and with my best friends. I've lived alone. I've hauled several loads of possessions over the highway to a new place. I've whittled my possessions down to three bags and started over from scratch. Nearly always, I move places where I'm a complete stranger. Then I meet amazing people and grow close to them. Then I leave.

I've been trying to figure out why I do this. I'm the sort of person who likes to keep her options open. That's the beauty of short leases and transient roommates. You just keep moving on. What a strange phrase, "moving on," a phrase that never looks back. I'm always looking for the next thing, the next city, the next friends, the next home. I'm restless. Eyes always sweeping the horizon, waiting for something--that amazing something--to come over it.

I've come halfway around the world now. It would be difficult to move farther, either geographically or, for that matter, in any other way. I live in a region I once said I'd never even visit. I've held entire conversations in a language that I didn't understand a year ago. I've seen cities most people have never heard of. I've loved people who can only be found here, who can only be known in this place.

But I don't really think I'm home.

In seven places in five cities, I haven't found home yet. Because home is the place we come back to. A place we always know will be there. A place we know we will always belong.

That's why I call myself a stranger here. I'll always be a stranger, even if I stay five years, or 10, or 50. I could never call this place home, because I've seen what can happen to a city in a day--in an hour. You're a fool if you believe that your country, your city, your house is something that will always be there. It is like standing next to the ocean, watching the waves crash, and believing that your sand castle will stand forever. Look at all the greatest empires that have ever crawled the face of the earth. When it gets down to it, for every country, for every city, for every house, their fall is only a matter of time.

That's why I keep scanning the horizon. I'm still looking for a different city. One that doesn't shake when an earthquake hits. One that doesn't groan when a war comes. One that doesn't change after a hundred years, or a thousand.

One where, one day, I'll stay.

A Modest Proposal

We have a new friend in al-Ballad named Ali. Ali's from Yemen, and he works this dusty junk shop filled with perfume, incense-holders, and brass goods that say "Saudi Arabia" in big letters on top and "Made in China" in tiny letters on the bottom. We met Ali last Christmas when we were on a mad search for gifts in a part of town where you can easily find Qurans, prayer rugs, abaayas, thobes, and shoes; but you can't find small souvenirs. Astounded by my extremely modest Arabic (I think I could only say "How much is this?" and "Please give me a discount" at the time), Ali and I had a blast bartering for everybody's gifts and trying to explain where we were from and what we were doing, again with my very limited language.

Anyway, when we visited his shop again four months later, he remembered us. I bet we're the only Americans who speak Arabic that have ever visited his store. So we hung around after haggling, practicing language.

"Who are the gifts for?" he asked in Arabic.

"Friends and family," I said.

"Are you traveling?"

"Yes, we will travel in one month."

"Where is your brother?" he asked, referring to Ryan, whom I refer to as my brother, generally.

"He's at the university. He will get married in the summer."

"You have a sister?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Is she younger or older than you?"

"She is younger, but taller."

"Is she married?"

"Why? Are you interested?" I asked, grinning.

Ali grinned back.

"Maybe."

I started to laugh.

"Ali, if you want to marry my sister, I need some gold from you. Not brass," I said, gesturing to the brass gifts I had just bought. I said that because in this society, the groom is required to give his bride a whole lot of jewelry as wedding gifts. That's why a lot of young Arab guys are single. No money, no marriage.

Ali made a sober face.

"Of course," he said. "If she will marry me, I will give her 100,000 riyal (about $37,500) in gold."

"Okay," I said, equally seriously. "I will ask her."

"Will she marry me?"

"I don't know. I will ask her."

"You're sweet, sister." (I didn't respond, because I didn't understand the word for "sweet"--I had to look it up later on Google Translate.)

Then, to seal the deal, he insisted on giving me a free, tiny bottle of perfume. My Man tried to pay him, but he just waved his hand at the money.

"Goodbye sister!" he said.

I took the proposal back to my sister a little later on Skype.

"Hey," I told her, "I have a proposal for you to make $37,500 next year. All you have to do is marry my friend Ali, have about 10 children, and cook and clean for him for the rest of your life. Room and board is included."

"Hm," she said. "That sounds right up my alley. Except the kids thing. Do I have to have kids?"

"Yes," I said, "unless you want to end up the first of several wives."

"I am probably going to require more gold. Like a million dollars worth."

So next time I see Ali, I'll see how the counter-proposal goes.

A whole lotta thoughts on something I hate

Deciding to leave America means deciding never to think about America in the same way ever again. Living abroad, you find out that "American independence" has bred a culture where you don't know your neighbors' names. You start wincing every time another Hollywood heroine decides to sleep with a guy she met three days ago. Your cheeks burn in embarrassment whenever your Chinese friends recount, in eye-bugging detail, the last 50 years' worth of American politics, and you realize you don't know the name of the Chinese...oh no...is it president? Dictator? Emperor? (Sorry, I took four years of American history and two years of Colorado history and one year of European history, and that left me very little time to study things like Asia.)

But while you become increasingly disgusted by certain aspects of your own culture, you will begin to hold some values tighter, squeezing them until they become red-hot in your fist.

Values like: Equality.

Here at the university, we have what I like to call the Al-Jim Crow laws. They are meant specifically to segregate the "high class" (professors, students, families) from the "low class" (construction workers, janitors, lower-level staff). The Al-Jim Crow laws include:

1. Signs on things like drinking fountains or elevators that say "Construction workers and Saudi Oger workers may not use this (fill in the blank)." Last semester, the manager of the supermarket here put a sign on his front door: "Construction workers not allowed inside store." At that time, this supermarket was the only supermarket on campus. If construction workers were not allowed to buy food there, it meant that the only thing they could eat were the (think Oliver Twist here) company-provided meals. Long days in the 110-degree heat wouldn't be tempered with at least a cold bottle of water.

My rock-star friend Andi saw the sign on the door, marched inside, and demanded to see the manager. There, in the middle of the store, she chewed the guy out. She told him that what he was doing was wrong and unethical. She told him it was disgusting. She told him (even though he managed the only supermarket on campus) that if he didn't take the sign down, she would boycott the store.

More than anything, she embarrassed him in front of all his co-workers. She's just this little white girl. He's a huge Arab. And she verbally picked him up and threw him in the mud.

He took the sign down.

And another store worker followed her out of the store and literally gave her a huge hug.

"Thank you for reminding me that we are all human," he said.

2. Rules that prevent the "lower class" from using facilities like the rec center, the so-called public beach, the library, or the movie theater. Some of the rhetoric used to defend this position is that "If you were hired to clean windows at a country club, would you automatically be entitled to play golf there?"

Which sounds logical--except that, if you cleaned windows at a country club, you could always choose to walk down the street and see a movie. Or buy a gym membership. Or visit a public beach, or stroll in a public park...See, the thing about this is that the workers here aren't barred from one thing--they are barred from the entire mini-city where we live. They literally have no options for recreation. As if their 12-hour work days weren't bad enough.

3. Further rules that prevent the "lower class" from accepting invitations from the "higher class." For instance, my friend Tanja recently invited the rec center manager to a BBQ at her place, but he had to turn her down, because his management wouldn't allow it. I'd love for a trainer at the gym to come house sit this summer (cutting her commute by two hours a day and taking care of my cat), but again: forbidden by management. For an even more disgusting story, you can read this frustrating little piece.

All this stuff going on at the university makes me want to vomit. I feel like I'm part of a system of abuse--I enjoy all the privileges of the "high class" in this community, while my benefactors squash four times as many people all around me.

More than anything, I hate how this system dehumanizes people. It sends the message that I am important, I am entitled, I should have what I want...but those construction workers? They have no needs, they have no feelings, they have no families or cares in the world. They're really only here to serve me, anyway.

But, I mean, we don't have that problem in America. Everyone gets to walk in the park. Right?

But I'm starting to believe--really believe--that the problem isn't that this country has no labor laws. I'm starting to believe that this problem is that in our hearts, we all kind of have those people in our lives that are really only here to serve me.

You can write all the labor laws you want. You can make people take down the segregation signs. You can let people walk in your park. But in our hearts, something is as twisted as ever if we continue to see people only for what they do for us. And when they don't do what we want, we get angry, we get upset, we really lose it, because after all we're the important ones, and they exist simply to serve us.

Need an example?

Your waitress? She has a soul. She does not exist to bring you soft drinks. If you refuse to tip her because she let your glass sit empty for five minutes, you see her only as someone who exists to serve you.

The guy working the check-out stand at Target? He has a soul. He does not exist to swipe your groceries. If you blow your fuse because he didn't give you the correct discount, you see him only as someone who exists to serve you.

I could go on and on. The barista at Starbucks. The toll booth operator. The guy who renews your driver's license. They all have souls. They, just as well as you, might have had a bad day. They might have money problems, or relationship problems, or family problems. They have all kinds of feelings. They probably carry those things around in their souls all day, and when you order a cup of coffee, or pay 75 cents, or let some guy take your picture, they do not cease to be a human being with feelings and problems and dreams.

The problem never comes down to government. Government just changes how that dehumanization thing works itself out in real life. But the bottom of the problem is in the human heart.

And that's something only one Person can change.