Day 14 - Homecoming

homeComing:: one of the drawbacks of living near the airport is being that close to home, and yet having to wait to get there. I literally can see my subdivision as the plane approaches the airport. So after the TSA-cavity search, I'm really ready to say adieu to my travelling companions, professors, airport security guards et. al and vegetate on the couch for three days. I can smell my couch. Literally. I do love theChaos for driving all across Atlanta to pick me up, and drive me the 6 miles from airport to home. I reward her by giving her Brazilian candy, and then boring her and her SO for hours with stories of my trip. I'm such a good mom.

transitioningBack:: While I'm boring her, I open my mail, and come across a letter from school. It's a congratulatory letter, a reminder about my service agreement (I have a few lectures I have to deliver about he trip), as well as a Helpful Hints Guide for Transitioning Back to the US. I assume that this is for students with more than 14 days abroad, but read it anyway. One of the things that stood out is to not harbor resentment for your US colleagues, friends, neighbors, politicians, etc. It suggests that they haven't shared your experience, may never have travelled abroad, and have no knowledge of any non-US countries. I'll admit, I kinda dismissed it. Then slept for about 6 hours.

But it's funny - that's pretty helpful advice. I get up, and run out to get some gas, something to eat, etc. As I'm entering the store, the guy (a black man) in front of me lets the door slam in my face. The clerk (another black man) is unfriendly, and never thanks me for my purchase. I overhear a complaint about how different things are for black people in this country. No one offers to pump my gas...well, let me take that back...a homeless (black) man offers to pump my gas: for change. I decline, get my gas, head home, and watch the news. More violence in S. Fulton county, N. Fulton (white people) is still trying to divorce S. Fulton, the war rages on in Iraq, and black people are protesting something marginally significant. I turn to another channel, and on some reality show, women of multiple races degrade themselves for the affection of some star.

I sic my teeth at the whole thing in resentment.

And I think...about the street corner hustlers in Rio/Buenos Aires/Colonia, selling everything from homemade empadas, to recycled Coke-bottle artwork, to bootlegged candy. I think about the shantytowns, made of corrugated steel, sweltering in summer, freezing in winter, and the lack of running water. I think about strange men of many different colors, who I cannot speak to because of language barriers, who help me in/out of my car, carry my bags, and hold my hand as I walk up and down stairs. And they're not just the taxi drivers, waiters and bellmen, either. They're just men, who think that helping a woman is what men are supposed to do (sexism be damned, I could use a lil more of that on the reg). I think about the bicycle courier who loses his load in downtown Rio, and the crowd of people that gather to help him recover it. I think about the disenfranchised indigent Argentines, unable to supplements the agricultural jobs lost to other agricultural countries, and asking the Cathlolic Bishop for favor. I think about Gaulo, and what life would be like to make, market and sell your own products, and live on/near the beach. I think about the elderly being deferred to on buses/trains, on the street, and in most public places. I think about state-subsidized colleges, and global competition in education as well as for "skilled" or "professional" jobs. And I think about how many opportunities Americans have, have not and squander. And it does, really, piss me the f*ck off. Particularly at my own people.

So I re-read the letter, and acknowledge that yes, Dorothy - it takes a bit of effort to really get back to Kansas. And I unwillingly adjust.