Going home...finally

Diana McCaulay, Contributor

I'M IN a minibus in the hills of West Virginia, United States listening to Bob Marley on the radio. The sun is shining, the trees are showing the effects of acid rain (there's a big coal-fired power plant nearby) and I'm filled with the knowledge that I'll soon be home.

By the time you read this, I'll be (almost) in Jamaica. And, truthfully, I'm somewhat scared. There's been much discussion in my programme about "reverse culture shock" ­ Americans are big on such concepts.

Mostly I'm longing be home, to be sure of my way again, to be with friends and family, nurtured by the familiar. For almost a year, every day has brought a challenge, right to the very end of my time here. My supermarket has just introduced U-Scan checkout machines ­ yet another machine to be mastered. It's not that there aren't challenges in Jamaica, indeed, we have more than our fair share. But at home, the detail of everyday life is background noise. When you are abroad, everyday life is the hurdle.

It'll be a relief not to have to be so strong. I had to give myself a lecture every day about taking advantage of my opportunities, having a sense of humour and perspective, understanding that growth occurs in difficult times, not in easy ones. I had to tell myself I was not BY myself, I was WITH myself, and I was never entirely convinced. Now I can go home and just be. Now I can go home and be with those I love.

Lessons

As the minibus swings around corners on this mountain road, I think of the many things I learned over the past year. I wrote about two lessons a week ago, but there are others. I learned the difference between a fir and a spruce, a rhododendron and a magnolia, and that the indigenous people of the Pacific Northwest boiled and ate the fiddleheads of ferns when they were very hungry.

I learned a baseball cap is indispensable in a rainy climate if you wear glasses. I learned the weather always gets better eventually. I discovered the pleasure of being inside when it was rainy and cold, curled up on the sofa under a blanket. Here, the rain never bucketed down; it dripped softly against the windows, it didn't quite wake you in the night, but you knew it was raining and you snuggled down a bit deeper, hoping the next day was a Saturday. I learned I could walk farther than I thought, carry more and eat less.

I learned what to do when there was nothing to do. I got on buses just to see where they went. I walked in parks. I went to cut-price movies. I browsed in second-hand bookstores. I sat on the banks of Lake Union in the sun, ate my lunch, and read. I bought bad coffee in cafes and read. I ate dinner and read. I read and read and read. It was wonderful.

I learned to live without my stuff. I moved into a small apartment, empty except for a fridge, stove, dishwasher and wall-to-wall carpets. I came to grips with the difference between needs and wants, bought junk store furniture, and lived without a long list of things I'd taken for granted at home. I found that without my stuff, I was more simply me, unconstrained, entirely contained in my skin and brain. When telemarketers called at night, I told them to reject all stuff. It got rid of them pretty quickly. I grew comfortable with silence.

Self discovery

I discovered anonymity. In the U.S., I wore what I wanted and went where I wanted. No one noticed me, judged my lack of style, or commented that I was that crazy feminist environmental person.

More than anything else, I revelled in this personal freedom. I could walk anywhere at any time of night. No one called out to me on the streets, hissing at my passing, no one remarked on my colour or my sex. For the first time in my entire life, I felt safe from morning to night.

So this is why I'm afraid to go home. How will I cope with going back to being unsafe, being fearful, living behind bars again, discussing the latest brutal murder with my friends? How will I go back to my comfortable but constricted Jamaican life? How will I dredge up concern about clothes, make-up and fashion? For a year, I've worn nothing but jeans and boots and I've loved it. (I did wear a sweater as well, don't panic.) How will I go back to all the hopelessness and negativity?

Yet amid my apprehension and uncertainty, I'm happy; unreasonably, abundantly, extravagantly happy. And it's because I'm going home.

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