November 9, 2012

  • On leaving

    When I lived in Tobago with my grandmother from the ages of 7 through 12, my aunts and uncles and cousins who lived in Trinidad would occasionally come up to visit my grandmother and to see me and my siblings. Sometimes they’d come for Christmas or during the months when we had no school (called summer there now, although it’s warm there all year).

    I loved living in Tobago, but loved it even more when family came to visit. I particularly loved it when my favorite aunt came to visit because although I couldn’t identify why, she reminded me of my mother who I missed all the time even when I didn’t realize it. We still had access to my mother who was living and working in America at the time. She would call and my brother, sister and I would tell her about school and what happened while playing and occasionally rat each other out for something or other we did. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough for any of us, especially when we’d see our cousins and other children hugging and talking to their mothers. So when my favorite aunt came to visit I transferred all of my desires on to her. And it was great while it lasted. She was caring and kind and loving and attentive just like any mother would be, though we were her sister’s children.But it didn’t last.

    Ultimately, she would have to leave to go to work and back to her life in Trinidad. And it devastated me. People kept leaving. I cried so much on one occasion that she decided to leave a blouse of hers so that I could have it and remember her. It smelled like her perfume, I remember, and I don’t know if she sprayed a little extra on for me before she left but it smelled that way for a long time. I put it on a pillow and hugged it like it was her. Like it was my mother.

    I’ve had to leave several times in my life. When we finally left Tobago for America it was overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time, because at the age of 12 I didn’t realize what leaving my grandmother and my home would mean. I couldn’t. Nothing is ever the same, and you can’t ever go home again. Once in America I’d move several times again, with family and eventually when I left for college. I didn’t stay in the same place for more than a year (being an RA didn’t help). By the time I left for my M.A. degree I had gotten used to leaving places and people. Leaving was the one thing I became used to.

    I just left Indiana again a few days ago, and leaving it this time didn’t feel quite as normal. I’m leaving again soon, to go back to Trinidad to live there for six months while doing background research for my dissertation. There is muted excitement there because I’m hesitant to leave, yet again. I’m leaving people and places I’ve grown to adore, and I’m finally beginning to tire just a little of leaving. Just a little. It’s not entirely comfortable anymore and I need, at the very least, to acknowledge that.