I walked across the padded carpet to the passport control queue where a rude overweight woman with a name tag was impatiently instructing passengers. Facing out past the cleanly divided lines was a big-screen TV playing a live American Football game and overhead a giant red, white and blue flag hung vertically. The officer looked at my immigration card. In the space for countries visited was my long list of tiny words, “Norway, England, France, Spain, Morocco, Gibraltar, Switzerland, India, Thailand, Hong Kong.” “How long have you been gone?” he asked in American English. “Nine months” I said. “And you went to all these countries? Wow. Well welcome back.” I took my stamped passport, stepped across the line, and I was home.
A couple of hours later I stood on the side of a highway strumming a banjo. I had repaired flip-flops, Indian baggy pants, and a blue tank on. My hair was a matted mess and my eyes were bloodshot from the jet lag. On the drive from the airport my friend’s car had had a flat tire and now we were waiting for a random guy who had stopped to help to get back with a tire-iron. A vehicle slowed down to ask if we were ok but the two old ladies seemed hesitant to even roll down their window once they caught sight of me. I gave them an Indian head bob without thinking. The US is an odd place. It feels vacant, like just a few rich people have a whole giant country all to themselves. Nobody walks on the sidewalks, nobody sells anything on the streets, and apparently nobody drives on the highways. Two hours in and I already felt lonely and directionless. At least I have enough experience with reverse culture shock to identify its effects, though I still feel powerless to avoid them.
It helps me to read my journal entries from the last time I came back to the States after a year abroad. I found this poem that I had written on my flight to JFK after the World Race.
Confused and sweaty I exited the airliner
My hat was sinking over my eyes but my hands were too full to fix it
Where had I just been?
Maybe an easier question is where haven't I been?
I felt a cold trying to make its way down my esophagus
Like I needed a hot tea
Or ice cream
Or emergen-C
What does the word "denial" even mean?
Psychologically speaking that is
Can one deny the fact that he is in denial?
Why do I feel like that guy in Office Space,
Who made a million dollars
Because he got destroyed by oncoming traffic
My backpack was digging into my shoulders
So I took it off
I just slipped my arms out and laid it on the floor
I could walk away from it if I wanted
But my laptop is in there
And my earbuds
And my wallet
It's not that I don't want to be home
It's not that I don't want the trip to be over
I just don't understand who I have become
Not just yet
I muddled up my vision and put on boots one size too big
And now I don't have a choice but to run this way
To exit the airplane
To go through customs
Sure that I have something to declare
But not quite sure exactly what it is
Thank you everyone who supported me and read my blogs while I was in India! I do not have a definite plan for the next stage of life but will update everyone when it comes. The next couple weeks I plan to be in OH, TN, KS, Denver, and AZ so send me a message if you want to catch up.
-Brant
