Immigrant Limbo Is Weird
And no one told me this.
I just spent $6.89 on the tiniest cappuccino in the Raleigh-Durham airport.
Almost SEVEN dollars, people.
Suffice it to say, Portugal is calling my name with its 90-cent espressos.
I’ve been in the US visiting family for a week and y’all, my wallet hurts, my flight is delayed and my urgent need to hug my husband and dog is unparalleled right now.
But my heart is full.
I’ve spent a week with the people I love so much.
I love my new life in Portugal but I’d be lying if I told you it has ever gotten any easier to say goodbye to my mom (who is becoming less and less herself due to dementia), my dad (who I’m terribly worried about as her full-time caregiver), and my sisters (who I just need like I need air).
It’s also pretty fucking weird to leave “home” for your new “home” when you know you’re not the same person you were when you called the first home, home.
Follow me?
When Mark and I were riding the “should we or shouldn’t we move to Portugal” rollercoaster in 2022/2023, no one ever told me how weird it would feel to actually BE an immigrant.
Sometimes it’s hard to explain exactly HOW you are different,
you just know that you are.
There are the obvious things, like an appreciation for the slow pace of life in Portugal, especially when you just got dropped off the airport after navigating crazy drivers on the highway, rushing to get to wherever the hell they are going, safety be damned.
There’s the clearer understanding now of just how indoctrinated you have been as an American to believe that no other place is bigger, better and full of opportunity than the USA (as long as you’re willing to suffer for it).
Oh - and the national healthcare - as I watched commercial after commercial of big pharma with their eleventy-seven disclaimers of death, stroke or havoc-wreaking diarrhea.
This morning, Mom, Dad and I were sitting on the dock and my mom, who is “in and out” of conversations due to her progressive dementia (read more about that here) looked over at me and said, “What’s so great about Portugal, anyway?”
It kind of took me aback since, before dementia, she has never been very aggressive in her communication and this felt…aggressive. Such is life with this disease.
I said, “The weather, the food, the people, the beaches, the wine.”
She just looked back over the water and the moment of having a real conversation did what it does now…vanished as fast as it showed up.
When I reflect further, I wish I could have eloquently put into words something even more important about Portugal…and that’s who I feel like I’ve become since living there.
I feel excited. I feel relaxed. I feel safe.
I feel like at 46 years old, there is this realm of possibilities that exists there for me and Mark even if we don’t know exactly what it looks like.
I don’t feel like that much here in the states anymore.
Even as I sit here in the RDU airport, I’m on edge because I’ve seen the worst of humanity in this country lately and frankly, it scares me to be around it.
There are times when I don’t even want to be associated with this country. She’s broken my heart over and over and the pain is hard to bear sometimes.
Believe me, I wish I didn’t feel that way, I wish I could be more proud. I hope one day I can be.
I spent the majority of my few days at my parent’s house this week grunting and rolling my eyes at the television, constantly on the news cycle, spewing the next atrocity, the next horrible way this administration continues to seek out cruelty against the most needy of us.
It made me tired. It made me sad.
Because I don’t know that I’d come back very often if it wasn’t for the people here that I love.
So therein lies the immigrant limbo.
The home you knew is no longer the home you wish to come back to. The new place is your new home and not just because of the weather and the beaches and the people and the food and the wine.
It’s your new home because it’s somehow created a new version of you and hugs you tight and says quietly in your ear that there’s more out here in the world to explore and experience and dream about.
So here I sit, counting the minutes until my feet touch Portuguese soil, but with a hint of “saudade” in my heart.
Until next time…
Meredith
What a beautiful but also poignant piece! I too am an immigrant and cannot imagine returning to my native country except for holidays. Even thought there's no turmoil there (for the time being), both the place and my habits, beliefs, and lifestyle have changed too much. Your piece made me think of Kundera's book Ignorance, an exploration of immigrants' views of the country they left behind and of their friends' and relatives' assumptions of what they are thinking and feeling about their native country.
Thank you for sharing these honest thoughts and as much as I hear you are torn, your words give me hope. Some day I want NOT to be monetized at every turn, I want NOT to be propagandized by either side, I want to live a slower, more meaningful life even if it feels strange. I live for the day I don't have to hear or see that orange clown again. And yet, if not for this terrible turn of political events, I wouldn't be looking at Portugal as my future home. So, for that, and for your posts and videos, I am grateful. Safe travels.