Today I read the blog entry of an Afro-American woman, talking about the American dream. She wrote about how full of hope she was when she moved from Kenya to America, how she thought she could make a better life there. Explained her goals, how she struggled in trying to achieve them… She wrote about everything she went trough.
As she got there, she was optimistic. America was the land of opportunity. She was expecting everything, instead she got nothing. First of all, it took her a lot to find a job. People didn’t want to hire her, because she was different. Finally she got a job in a market. She could clean the place after everybody was gone. She wasn’t allowed to show herself, but at least she had a job.
Finally she realized: Her life in Kenya wasn’t worse, but it also wasn’t better. The American dream is for those who afford to live it. An ordinary person couldn’t benefit such thing. But she didn’t leave America. She stayed there, hopping she’ll once have a better chance.
Reading her story made me think about her as a brave girl. It takes guts to go trough something like that and still keep your head high. It takes a lot of courage and strength to fall down and still be able to rise. But her story also made me wonder: Why do we try to leave our homes, hoping a better future awaits in a bigger city? What could actually make us feel like home?
I also find myself in a big city and I hate it. I would leave anytime. And one day I will. But it was my choice to be here. I wanted something more than I could get in the city where I grew up. I wanted a better job than I could find there, a better paid one. I wanted not to miss the parties I got used to. I spent 4 years here; it would be kind of hard for me to leave it. And still I can’t call it home.
Comparing her story to mine made me ask myself another question: If I don’t fell home in the city I grew up or in the one I’ve spent more then 4 years, where would I feel home? Is everybody in my situation or am I the only freak who doesn’t find her place? Will I ever be able to be happy, by being a “homeless”? And than I realized:
There are things that make me happy: having a chat with my friends, asking my mom for an advice, hearing my dad’s jokes…taking a walk in the park, seeing a movie, going to the theatre…learning to cook, cleaning my room, taking care of my flower… And most importantly: Hearing HIS voice and being in HIS arms…. And it made me realize there was my home…
As she got there, she was optimistic. America was the land of opportunity. She was expecting everything, instead she got nothing. First of all, it took her a lot to find a job. People didn’t want to hire her, because she was different. Finally she got a job in a market. She could clean the place after everybody was gone. She wasn’t allowed to show herself, but at least she had a job.
Finally she realized: Her life in Kenya wasn’t worse, but it also wasn’t better. The American dream is for those who afford to live it. An ordinary person couldn’t benefit such thing. But she didn’t leave America. She stayed there, hopping she’ll once have a better chance.
Reading her story made me think about her as a brave girl. It takes guts to go trough something like that and still keep your head high. It takes a lot of courage and strength to fall down and still be able to rise. But her story also made me wonder: Why do we try to leave our homes, hoping a better future awaits in a bigger city? What could actually make us feel like home?
I also find myself in a big city and I hate it. I would leave anytime. And one day I will. But it was my choice to be here. I wanted something more than I could get in the city where I grew up. I wanted a better job than I could find there, a better paid one. I wanted not to miss the parties I got used to. I spent 4 years here; it would be kind of hard for me to leave it. And still I can’t call it home.
Comparing her story to mine made me ask myself another question: If I don’t fell home in the city I grew up or in the one I’ve spent more then 4 years, where would I feel home? Is everybody in my situation or am I the only freak who doesn’t find her place? Will I ever be able to be happy, by being a “homeless”? And than I realized:
There are things that make me happy: having a chat with my friends, asking my mom for an advice, hearing my dad’s jokes…taking a walk in the park, seeing a movie, going to the theatre…learning to cook, cleaning my room, taking care of my flower… And most importantly: Hearing HIS voice and being in HIS arms…. And it made me realize there was my home…
Da draga mea Irinuka...vechea mea prietena cu care am colindat atatea strazi..in atatea zile si nopti pentru a ajunge undeva unde...nu stiam ce vom gasi. Ideea este ca in aceste orase mari unde am ajuns..fara sa stim exact de ce doar cu gandul ca aici va fi mai bine, nu ne vom gasi niciodata linistea de care odata...aveam parte langa parintii nostrii...langa munctii care ne ocroteau oraselul...langa prietenii adevarati care la varsta aceea nu aveau interese ascunse...la tot ce era odata in orasul de unde am plecat. Iti dau dreptate intru totul, si te sustin in cele spuse in ultimul paragraf al povestioarei tale si vreau sa iti spun tie si celor care citesc acest blog (oameni apropriati acum tie dar pe care eu nu am de unde sa ii cunosc) ca viata este un cumul imens de bucurii marunte, peste care se poate trece foarte usor...si care pentru unii sunt nimicuri...dar pentru noi, cei care nu avem atat de multe cum altii au...cei care luptam pentru fiecare mica bucurie...pentru noi luarea in calcul si maxima constintizare a acestor bucurii este motivul si singurul mod prin care putem merge mai departe. Pupici multi de tot...si sper ca timpul asta care este oricum relativ, sa ne aduca undeva..pe o terasa...in noul centru vechi...la o cafea...o barfa...o reamintire a ceea ce insemna odata un sincer "NE vedem diseara pe undeva?" - Take care
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