Displazada

Sometimes tears come before understanding. This is true of the little boy I take care of a lot, and sometimes also true of me, I'm finding. The last two Monday mornings were crying days for me, and I couldn't really figure out why. Maybe because I hadn't cried in two months and it was just time to do so again? Maybe because "homesickness comes in stages," like Rebecca said? I don't feel homesick in the sense I normally think of, though.

In Bogota there are lots of displazados -- people from other regions of the country who had to leave their homes and move to the city, and they often find themselves with no place to stay, no work, no nothing. In the park outside of El Otro Camino, there are several families of indigenous peoples who dry their clothes in the sun, make beaded bracelets, let their children play on the swingset, and generally look out of place and a bit aimless. Recently another nonColombian friend was talking to one and he told her that she was like him, displazada, displaced, away from home.

Even though I'm willingly displaced, not driven out, maybe I can relate in some small way. Outside of my community of "back home" I feel like I don't know myself as well. New and deeper questions are coming to surface that don't yet have answers. The dream that I'm here to fulfill isn't rose-colored in reality. I feel confident that I'm in the right place, doing the right thing, but it's not easy (or even fun some of the time).
And I think these things are the very tip of the iceberg, and they are very new thoughts so it's difficult to express them all coherently. Basically, things are good and I'm really happy to be here but at the same time I have moments of feeling completely lost and confused and frustrated about my role and who I am: here and in general.