“You have to tell people this!” my friends say, “you have to write about it!”.
Why should I? I wonder.
I moved to France last spring, had a five glorious months of delicious food, lounging in cafes, soaking my feet in the Mediterranean in the evenings perched on a pier by a medieval coastal fortress. Then I came back to US. I did not like it. I do not like it. I miss home. I miss the laziness, the relaxed appreciation of morning sun and good coffee, I miss food that doesn’t sit like a rock in my stomach. There is so much fear here, in America, so much stress, so much tension. And the food is flat-out scary. And I don’t like it.
“You have to write about this!” my friends tell me. They don’t like it here either and they look to me to say something, to make a difference, to change … something.
But I don’t have a wish to change America, because when I look at America I see people. People who choose, people who decide. I see a country created by the choices of it’s citizens, and I respect those choices.
There is so much I don’t know, there is so much I don’t see. There are triumphs and acts of greatness in this country I dislike. There is love and kindness and beauty and I respect those too. I respect the american way, I respect the american path. Even when it leads through heavy trauma, pain and struggle I still respect the choice that created it. And I respect the choices that will heal it and transform it in time.
There is nothing for me to say. There is nothing for me to write about. There is no need for me to make a difference, and there is nothing for me to change.
