On little heartbreaks

… or how disillusionment is a good word.

So far, I’ve found many a good thing about the wondrous America. I look at it through the eyes of a child, uttering “just like in the movies” under my breath when something new comes along. Hell, sometimes it’s like the Disney movies: I was eating my well-deserved pizza when a deer sneaked up behind my back and took a nap in the grass.

It’s nice when I steal some solitude. Not that I have to try plenty for it, though; Roomie’s marathon phone calls with her boyfriend are reason enough for me to clear out and do my thing. They’re entertaining a lot of the times, especially since I can only really hear her side of the conversation and am still gluing together my understanding of Patois. Most of the time, though, it’s just nerve-consuming, particularly because the conversations are nothing more than jealousy and unreasonable requests.

I try to understand people are, a lot of the times — most of the times — a product of their environment and don’t even know they’re doing anything wrong. It’s proving impossible to let it be the forgiving point for many these days.

I started hanging out with other employees — my coworkers, wow — these days. We’ve gone out for beers a couple of times now and I think we’ve successfully gotten through the initiation periods of looking at each other like foreign birds from neighbouring nests, not quite knowing what to do with each other. I’ve definitely gotten a chance to assess some of the characters, see what the people who now have names to their faces are all about.

Of course, thank Christ for alcohol, amiright? It kicks my shy ass into gear a bit, everybody shares their favourite drinks, everybody likes a beer after a long day.

It starts out okay. Relaxed. We’re all ordering our drinks, the menu looks lush, there’s some neutral music in the background and the bouncer slash bartender seems to know the quiet but sly guy from our group, so we’re all set. “Guinness? That’s so predictable!” “I don’t know, I like the taste, sue me.” Conversations break into little groups and you talk to an interesting-looking character it soon becomes obvious the two of you have a lot in common, in spite of it not seeming possible at all. You meet a fellow philosophy major — they seem thrilled, and thankfully don’t question you on any in-depth theories you’ve forgotten even before they were learned.

A hot little basket of potato and cheese balls is a good idea. You have work in the morning.

Then comes disillusionment. Suddenly I’m sitting behind the table with four right-wing enthusiasts who all acknowledge Trump’s incompetence, but would still rather not vote for Hillary just because. I exclude myself from this debate; I’m two beers in and I know better than to go picking into the nest of people who, after all, live here. And anyway, they seem like okay human beings. At this point, their political affiliations aren’t that big of a deal.

(Even if I do wonder about the values of someone who can claim capitalism is a good world system.)

I get asked about political situations in my homeland, and that almost perks me up a bit; I try to start explaining about the student movements and protests, about engagement. Instead, I ill-advisedly choose to talk about the recently fallen referendum on gay marriage.

“That’s right!” exclaims Roomie. “Every stuff like that should fall. Gay is not okay. That is not normal.”

And suddenly, like a slap in the face, I realise I’m a long, long way from home.

Home has homophobes, too. Xenophobes, yes. But at home I don’t sit with them having beer on a Friday night and shake in rage and disbelief over the ignorance they are capable of harbouring. Wilful ignorance, even, far beyond the ‘being a product of their environment’. I can sit in this American movie for as long as I want, ooh and aah over the scenes in it, but man, the script sure sucks here and there.

I miss my little gay crowd back home. A bubble, we call it, being among people who can make you feel accepted and respected to the point at which you forget anything outside can hurt you. There’s no room to feel ashamed of who you are or explain yourself, you just are and that’s enough for everybody — you and your friends. Nobody tries to shut you down. Nobody brings God into where he has no place.

If he’s watching, he’s had enough of this shit show, anyway.

The argument lasted, and tried as I might, I still couldn’t help lashing out. Admittedly, here specifically, Roomie was the only one with her … views. Still, nobody gave her any real trouble for it. It’s her opinion, you see. She’s entitled to that. Apparently.

Later, everything is normal again. I can even see Roomie coming up to me now, as lazy from the week at work as I am, dragging her feet over the concrete. A product of her upbringing and environment, she’ll never understand her opinion is hurtful, and when yelled aloud at a bar, is never only hers. She still only talks at people, self-sufficient and uninterested in the world around her that’s different.

Together with others, she’s been a little heartbreak on her own. A disillusionment. Maybe it’s the expectations; they sneak in when I’m not looking, even as I’m training myself to just be and not expect. Especially here on this Grand Adventure, chasing my … whatever. On the other hand, it doesn’t take an exceptional expectation to assume people would be considerate and understanding human beings. It shouldn’t, at any rate.

This isn’t to say the people I’ve met are bad. That’s an injustice I’d hate to make. In my own nostalgic way, I’m ascribing poetic qualities to each of them, remembering them for their quirks and the ways they struggle to say my name, but refuse to take shortcuts via nicknames. Soon I’ll need to start planning the travelling in October, and work keeps me plenty occupied for the hours of the day when consciousness needs to be a thing.

Everything else will be decided as the summer draws on. And it’s a long road ahead of us yet.