One of my cousins recently came down from Canada. Looking at her I swear I could see a reflection of my old, pre-jaded self. She was so enthusiastic, so willing to believe the best in any and every one, so disillusioned optimistic.
Like me, her life is Canada. The only ties she has to this country are her heritage and her husband. So when she went on for about an hour how it doesn’t matter where you are, what matters is who you are, and when she says that it was no picnic fighting, be it against society or ourselves, to be ourselves back in Canada, I really can’t argue with her. And then she goes on to say what difference is it being here? Same fight, different place. What matters is, are we the same people?
This is where I start ‘massaging my temples’ and ‘groaning in despair.’ Not because what she said was a load of bull. That’d be easier to take. But because what she said is, like I said, a reflection of me. My words. The words I believed in, I fought for, I was for my entire life.
And I’m reminded all over again of my broken dreams and my sore heart.
I think they’ve finally gotten to me.