Roots and That Feeling Called Placelessness

For a while I've had this tension between my origins and my current place in the world. I believe this tension to be a feeling we all immigrants share. I left my hometown, Dominican Republic, both by chance and by a desire to challenge my circumstances there. Upon arriving to New York City, I wanted to disassociate from my Dominican identity; I wanted only to accept as mine, the love for our food and blue beaches. That was pretty much it. With this disconnect, came my generalization of what being Dominican is: that we all live in a bubble in that island, that we are all simple minded, lacking real depth, that no authentic fulfillment could be found while living there. I repulsed how plagued my land is with disproportionate class differences and people's pathological aspirations of being part of a very small upper class.

In New York City, I found relief from it all. Roaming the streets freely, savoring the freedom of my tiny apartment in the ghetto, wearing what I wanted sans the scrutiny of people. Being able to look within because of that anonymity. Because there was nothing laid out for me, just what I started to construct for myself. They were wonderful, those moments of discovery. My deep love for this city resides precisely there, that it allowed me a second chance at discovering what I wanted for myself, by myself.

But after that foundation dried, and I seemingly knew who I was, I started to question if this was just a fantasy, an escape from my real roots, from who I was meant to be. The city's intensity, in spite of all its wonderfulness, wore me down, deprived me of those quiet moments to introspect. I started to drift to the simple-mindedness of my country, to its blue beaches and the shade of coconut trees; I started to find comfort in thoughts of going back and not struggle anymore.

Time passes and this unsettling feeling remains. But I think is not Dominican Republic that I miss, but a place where I can find a more peaceful inner pace, somewhere where I can feel proud to belong to, a place I can call HOME. I have not found it.

After trying to find my center in New York City, after going back to Dominican Republic for months at a time, I have not found it. After visiting countries in Latin America and falling in love with each and one of them, I have not found it. Where will I start growing my roots? and most importantly, how?

Now and again, I am leaving both by chance and by a desire to challenge my current circumstances in New York City. The history repeats itself and I am placeless. As I write this, I am on a plane to South America, where I will visit four different countries; one of them, Chile, holds half of my son's cultural heritage. Another, Colombia, is the home of my partner, the person I am in love with. And I believe somewhere, deep within this continent, there are answers to my yearnings.

However intense this trip or this tendency of mine might be, I am glad I am not sitting back, contemplating my life, desire bursting from me; but instead, I am participating in this opportunity of living that was granted to me. Perhaps the issue of roots is not concerned with a place, but with certain moments that are both precious and transitory. And perhaps my roots are not meant to be set in one place, but spread widely among all the places and people that accompany me in this journey.

Picture from my airplane window.