Here’s to the security guards who maybe had a degree in another land. Here’s to the manicurist who had to leave her family to come here, painting the nails, scrubbing the feet of strangers. Here’s to the janitors who don’t even fucking understand English yet work hard despite it all. Here’s to the fast food workers who work hard to see their family smile. Here’s to the laundry man at the Marriott who told me with the sparkle in his eyes how he was an engineer in Peru. Here’s to the bus driver, the Turkish Sufi who almost danced when I quoted Rumi. Here’s to the harvesters who live in fear of being deported for coming here to open the road for their future generation. Here’s to the taxi drivers from Nigeria, Ghana, Egypt and India who gossip amongst themselves. Here is to them waking up at 4am, calling home to hear the voices of their loved ones. Here is to their children, to the children who despite it all become artists, writers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, activists and rebels. Here’s to Western Union and Money Gram. For never forgetting home. Here’s to their children who carry the heartbeats of their motherland and even in sleep, speak with pride about their fathers. Keep on.
Immigrants. First generation.
Friends I made an instagram (it’s broratio) and you should follow it if you wanna see pictures of me and my life.
A year ago I was so convinced that by now I would be halfway around the world in a completely different city, free to build my life over from scratch. I was so hopeful and optimistic, I couldn’t have wanted anything more. The idea of myself as a vagabond type character is so core to my sense of identity, it permeates every aspect of how I conceptualize relationships and social bonds. For so long I tried to make rootlessness into a strength instead of a weakness, like this loneliness I feel is basic to my experience would be more tolerable if it were voluntary. It weirds me out so much to see the people I loved and treasured a year, five years, ten years ago, and how much we’ve changed and drifted apart. I feel simultaneously stagnant and changing too fast. I’m glad I stayed and I love my life here, but the wanderlust runs deep; I still feel it’s itch. I’ve been kept up by thoughts of the infinite different lives I could have lead, and which ones would have made me happy. Truthfully I still don’t know what happiness means to me but this is as close as I’ve come and I think that’s a good thing.
trying a lil something new with my writing in terms of visual representation, lemme know if u like and pls keep the source x