Between Two Homes

It’s 2pm, and dad has to leave. Today is the day when he goes back, and I don’t. I stay here. I have been anxious about it since morning, I don’t know how to say goodbye, it’s the first time I am doing it really. He looks at me, and I can tell by the awkward smile on his face that he doesn’t know how to do it either. We get out of the restaurant and I know I have only a few minutes left with him until the soul of New York swallows me alive and confronts me. The buzz of Harlem’s streets saves us from the embarrassing scene of tears that truly happens only in movies. The blare of the taxis, and the constant shouting of the drunk homeless guy wandering down the sidewalk give us no chance to be emotional. He wishes me to do well in school, and that’s it. I turn away.

The sun is particularly bright for a January day and it dazzles me as I walk down Madison Avenue. I find comfort in the way it warms my skin, as though it lets me know that the city welcomes me. The heat even orders me to open up my long dark coat. The four men at the corner of the block notice it quickly, “You the queen of Harlem baby, ya look good sweetie! Let me see what’s under this coat”.

In a matter of seconds, it’s as if the city advises me that I shouldn’t get too comfortable, I may have made it to the USA but the streets aren’t mine, not just yet. This short period of hope, brings me back to the reality that I am not yet deserving of being here. I still have to fight some more for New York City.

It had been 14 months of constant fight already. As a human being it was quite strange to come to the realization that I had to be worthy of my decision to leave everything behind. Eventually moving to New York wasn’t just about traveling to another country to learn the language and observe the culture, it was about leaving France and all I had known for the entirety of my life to melt myself into a culture that, I hoped, could become mine.

For 14 months I belonged to nowhere. France wasn’t entirely home anymore because I had taken the decision to leave it, but New York hadn’t welcomed me either. I spent 14 months being the person in-between. And every day felt like I had to fight to belong somewhere. The hardest challenge was to enter the American embassy by myself. We had taken the plane to Paris together with dad, but he was not allowed in, “Only visa applicants” said the front guard soullessly. It was like being sent to the slaughterhouse.

I waited in line, mixed with the rest of the crowd also fighting for an entry ticket to the United-States. I held my documents so firmly that the moisture of my hands left traces of sweat on the plastic envelope holding them.

The guy who stood in front of me was turned down. I knew that when the fifty-year-old coldhearted secretary would call “Next”, I would have just a few minutes to let my words become meaningful enough for them to cross the fathomless facade of this window separating us, and convince her to approve my visa. This transparent glass was mocking me, arrogantly spitting to my face, “She is American, and you’re not”. I slipped the envelope on the counter and stammered nervously in response to the interrogation she inflicted on me. She interrogated me on information concerning my studies, as if I had to recite by heart the address of the school I wanted to attend, the classes I intended to take, and most importantly on what date I would return home. I was allowed no hesitation.

The inquiry lasted what seemed hours, the palms of my hands getting more and more moist with each sentence she uttered. I was looking at her lips, waiting for them to pronounce the words that would liberate me. Each next sentence could become the one where she would give me a verdict and my impatience grew stronger. I could feel my face turning red, my head was spinning.

After a few minutes she monotoned that my application was approved. The approval didn’t matter to her though. She didn’t realize the power she had in signing my passport. The pressure that had huddled in a corner of my mind for the past whole year, preventing me from sleeping, wringing my stomach at each new step of the way, evaporated. A feeling of hysteria filled my body, my legs and arms were tingling.

That moment of respite was brief and the paralyzing tension returned more intensely as soon as I joined dad at the entrance and he told me, “Perfect. Only thing left to do is buy the plane tickets”.

For me it would be “a” plane ticket, a one-way trip, no return planned. And I guess that’s when I realized what I actually put myself into. I had worked for a whole year applying to colleges, translating hundreds of documents, being tested on my English; but none of that had real value. I did it without thinking that if everything worked out, I would actually leave. I did it just like you get ready in the morning, mechanically.

The tickets were booked; on the 25th of December early in the morning, dad and I would fly to this unknown land whose call was so mesmerizing to me. And on January 5th he would fly back home, an empty seat next to him.

I had six weeks left waking up each morning in the soft sheets of my own bed, opening my window to the beauty of the French Alps, six little weeks left to walk the familiar streets of my village which had become home every passing day for the last 18 years of my life.

All of my friends were preparing the holidays with their families, taking out the colorful lights and bright ornaments from the dusty boxes to place them proudly on a majestic pine tree. I was emptying my wardrobe, forced to separate my outfits in order of importance as not all of them would make it in the only two suitcases that would fly with me. It was a strange feeling to pick certain clothes over others, as if I was abandoning them forever by leaving them behind.

Christmas didn’t feel quite like Christmas.

Mom and I were the only ones to dress up and act like we cared. Dad was busier thinking about the upcoming days than celebrating. Everyone had to wake up early the next day and wanted to get it over with. Everyone but me. I wanted to ensure that my last night there would be a night worth remembering.

I guess we all knew life was going to be different, but acknowledging it wouldn’t make things any better. We all knew and that was enough. So everyone behaved like it was a trivial night, like if the next one we would still be all together. We had dinner one last time just the four of us; mom on my right, my brother in front of me and dad on my left. The fire in the chimney behind me was warming my back and reassuring me that I would be missed, even though no one were to say it out loud. The crackling of the flames were talking for them.

I did not sleep much that night, slowly scrutinizing my room to ensure that I would not forget how it looked, to make sure that the orange would still appear as vivid in my mind as it was on the walls. I must have fallen asleep at some point because my alarm went off and woke me up with a start. I did not have breakfast; my stomach was too tight and my mind fixated on other things.

Despite me knowing that it was the last one, my final morning at home was peaceful. I left on a bright day in the quiet of the morning, the town was still asleep and the grass still covered of the white coat of the morning dew.

As we drove out of the village I looked at the familiar houses around me one last time. Memorizing the look of the streets and the storefronts as the car drove through the main road of the town, was a way to tell my place that I was not leaving it forever, that I still cared deeply for it and that I would not forget where I came from.

I wasn’t leaving it because it didn’t bring me happiness, and I owed it this explanation.

I said goodbye to my brother at home, and then to mom at Geneva’s airport. One stopover and nine hours of flight later we reached. Dad was exhausted and so was I, but the excitation took over the fatigue.

We collected the bags and hopped in one of the famous yellow taxis, the lights of New York’s dwellings and traffic shining vividly in the cloudless dark night. The driver’s broken French was somewhat reassuring and encouraged me to think that I made the right decision, that soon enough these streets would be the ones I would want to passionately cling to.

We reached the Airbnb around 11pm. The jetlag made sure that I wouldn’t sleep that night either, thus it’s wide awake that dad found me when he woke up. He told me to get ready within ten minutes, so we could go for breakfast at the Starbucks down the street.

For the coming week he would be my guide in this city he had explored thirty years ago, a city that no longer existed like he had known it, but I didn’t have the strength to tell him that because I knew that soon enough I’d be deprived of his reassurance. I knew that soon enough I’d be by myself.