Son of Elsewhere: A Memoir in Pieces

Love is a practice, a trail you carve out by traveling the same path over and over and over until it becomes familiar, until it lights the way home.

I didn’t understand then what a profound act of generosity this was; to see another person as a part of your tribe when they don’t see themselves that way is an act of kindness. It requires that you extend yourself to another.

Elsewhere is an orientation, an emotional frequency, a chaotic compass that waits until you take a step in one direction, then immediately points in the direction behind you.

That, ultimately, is the whole point of language, isn’t it? To lessen the crushing burden of existence by creating a tiny bridge between us. I make some sounds, and you feel seen and understood and less lonely.

It is a profound, transformative gift to have someone see you as you’d like to be seen, even if you don’t see yourself that way.

We do things out of fear and we do things out of love and no one tells you what happens when you act from both places at once.

Elsewhere is a volcano, but it is one you walk into willingly. Elsewhere is a choice, and can only be a choice- you must care enough to bear the weight of the heaviness to which your heart is tethered. This is to say, you have agency in shifting your gaze from a once-home to a now- home. Elsewhere is for the middle children of diaspora, those who have definitely left but haven't exactly arrived. You have to let yourself be reminded that a part of you is rooted in another place; face what is missing, the empty crevices that once contained what you now lack-an old way of greeting, a pronunciation of your name that is at best an approximation of the real thing and say thank you, for it is because of this deficit that you know yourself. Elsewhere is a conscious choice to remain in the incomplete. Your Elsewhere is like no one else's, but it's the same in its fragile liminality. We live on a suspension bridge, and some days are windier than others.

I am a student of migration stories. I am pulled toward accounts of lives rearranged by the journey from one place to another.

To speak and to be understood is a freedom. It is perhaps the most fundamental freedom. To summon words intentionally, and have another person understand your meaning and connect with it, is to be unbound. Conversely, without it, a part of you is caged. You feel betrayed by a spotty brain-tongue connection. And you notice when others don't catch your full drift. Maybe it's the context of what you mean; maybe it's the inflection in your voice; maybe it's undercutting yourself by putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable. This trapped feeling is far more acute when you move in a language that isn't your own. There are intricacies andsubtleties that matter a great deal to communicating. Without them, your meaning is stuck in your throat. This is how I felt after arriving in Canada, where I had to translate simple thoughts into English, with all the added social cues, before I could get them past my lips. This translation work is labour. It's time and effort spent trying to wrangle unruly words that won't fit in your mouth. God, have you tried to say "parallelogram"? Have you tried to differentiate it from a rhombus? When will I ever need to say "parallelogram?" Anyway: it's mental gymnastics, and the only reward is blank looks on the faces of people who can tell you're trying to say something but hear another. Maybe I messed up the syntax? Maybe my pronunciation was off and now I have to spend twenty minutes convincing you I'm not stupid? Damn, I can't believe some people can just speak and be understood. The luxury!

What I am trying to say is: it is possible to reform your idea of yourself. It's the only real inner work there is–going back and revisiting your horrors, and holding yourself accountable and moving forward.