I'm not here to explore the dissolution of my marriage (something I am still completely struggling with) or to discuss the complexities (ie. mess) of my life. Rather, I had hoped to examine the convergence of tragedies that have led me to this space, standing on the edge of a dream. I've been here before, about to enter a world which I thought I wanted. I am well aware of getting what you wish only to find out you hadn't wished it completely so. That is exactly what is causing me pause here.
I have never wanted to be plagued with regret. I'm finding it may not be entirely possible. The move to Florida remains something of an example. I can often lament the unwelcome changes it brought. But, knowing myself so well, I can realize that had I not scaled the coast of a country I would be grappling, not with the loss of a life I knew, but the loss of a life that could have been.
Africa has been inside my soul since the day I could see it seems. I fell in love first with the art. The history of art: Egyptian relics, wooden masks of the forest, capable of creating and calling spirits whose wisdom far exceeded our own. I think that was the first draw. Never having a history of family secrets and recipes and rites of passage to rely on, I searched outward. It is easy to fall into the myths of Africa. It is a land brimming with hidden worlds and spiritual knowledge, history, community, all of the things I could not find in my adolescent longing for a simple surname.
I had always wondered what it would be like to be recognized as "McCoy" or a "DeAngelis" or any of the names that brought forth a bounty of brothers, sisters, cousins and aunts, uncles and grandparents. I found this much later after a long journey of acceptance and denial and effort. I found a place where my name is recognized. And that is a beginning.
I've shed a bit of my early notions of magic and ancient secrets. I'm more in tune with the realities and hardships of Africa. I've grown to love the music, the food, the fabric, the very design of African life. But I do have to remember to be cautious, not to get too caught up in the romance of my vision and to keep at least one foot grounded in the reality of my decision.
This is why, at times, I am frantic with fear about the things that can wrong. This is what I fear. A snakebite. Malaria. After election guerilla skirmishes. I don't hold this fear for myself so much as for the baby. I call him that, although he is 3 now. I never liked to hear others doing that. I would l think defiantly in my mind, 'That child is no baby.' But here I am, with my last, stubbornly clinging to the idea. Standing right beside the conviction that this presents an invaluable opportunity to experience the world is the rational notion that unspeakable tragedy could easily unfold. (Maybe it is just my mother speaking, as all mother's must, in the wee hours of the night.)
I don't fear things here. I don't fear any of the American things that spoil a childhood, tragedies that could just as easily occur here as there. Perhaps because leaving implies making a concious choice hence the possibility for blame and guilt. These are things inherent in parenthood. A brief Catholic schooling at an impressionable age has left me practiced in the art of assuming guilt.
I want to walk forward strong and sure in my future. I know that this is the final place I have not searched, the final voyage that can bring me to peace. If I cannot find it there, then surely I am a doomed soul of tragic proportions.
So there is fear, there is the desire to examine every future event and make ammends with the possibilities. I cannot. I fear the irretractable. Is it fair to say that just as much I fear becoming stagnent, standing still and never pushing forward? I fear a life with no passion.
