Friday, July 6, 2012
This friendly guy, wearing a backpack and a bucket hat, is standing about four feet behind her. I'd seen him when I came into the library, greeting people in the doorway. He's clearly a regular. A man introduces him to his wife and kids. You can't help but smile at the whole interaction. And as people are passing by while he waits for the printer, they're saying hello, addressing him by name.
Pretty Printing Lady turns and looks over her shoulder with an expression of great unease. And then she says to Friendly Regular, "Could you step back and to the left?" Trying to break the tension, he asks with a convivial and simultaneously empathetic smile, "Oh, am I scaring you?" And without a bit of humor, she replies, "You're just too close for me."
One of Friendly Regular's friends, a thin woman whose face betrays years of bad habits and bad luck, gapes at Printing Lady, then says something along the lines of, "I've had it with these Newport women. I'll be outside." And you know this isn't the first injustice she's faced at the hands of people uncomfortable with imperfection, people who are unfamiliar with what it means to go without, to need.
Pretty Printing Lady finishes her errand and stands. "I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable," Friendly Regular says. She doesn't look at him. She clutches her purse to her chest and walks away. I want to grab her by her smug shoulders and shake her. I want to ask her, "Does it occur to you how you make people feel? You with your designer handbag, with your library card nestled in your Coach wallet?" I don't think I could make her understand. She'd probably tell me she'd do the same thing if a man in a Versace suit were standing behind her, but it's not the same. It couldn't possibly be the same.
Monday, July 2, 2012
There are places I have been and places I have lived to which I have grown particularly attached. There are also those to which I have not. I have never grown attached to Southern California. I love my friends, I love my local pub, I love being able to partake in fine dining at any hour. But when I leave it, I do not miss it. Not the place itself. I could never come back and I would not think twice about it.
Leaving Northern Ireland has never been easy. Each time I have departed, I have left an increasingly larger chunk of my heart on the airport runway. When I left Belfast this time, I am fairly certain it retained a piece of my soul I cannot get back until I return. And then perhaps I'll sew it to myself like Peter Pan wrangling his shadow. I suspect it would make no difference. It'd find a way to sever itself from me and stay behind. It'd creep away while I slept.
It's hard to explain such attachment to a place--why some patches of ground seem to grasp us by the guts and anchor us down. And then leaving feels like spilling our insides on that holy stretch of land, rendering us emptier, hollow and unsatisfied, anywhere else.
I can recite the explanations I give to anyone who asks why on earth I would choose to spend my time in Belfast: The people are wonderful, the city is beautiful, everyone sings when they drink. There's just no fully capturing that feeling of being fully bound from the inside out to some specific spot.
Home, we call it. How do you describe home? It is not simply where you live. It's some sorcery, some mystic force that turns your bones and your stomach to lead when you try to escape.
Home is where the heart is, they say--a monstrous but accurate cliché--and if the heart is in fact to blame, well, sometimes the heart inexplicably chooses to reside far, far away. So it goes.