an in between person

How often does a person get to be alone like this? Alone in my work without a boss, grades, evaluation of any sort. Alone in my thoughts with no one knowing much of my personal life. No e-mail, phone calls only done by appointment, no messages or on-line texting. I am alone with my history, my English words scrawled in charcoal on my bathroom wall. Alone in Garly.

I grit my teeth during a painful car ride. I know the smell of the wheat porridge at the feeding center, and the feeling of Neene Mawdo’s dry hands as she clasps mine to say good morning. There is no witness to make this real, once I leave it. No one to stretch against under the mosquito net. No one to play euchre with during the swelling silent time between lunch and early evening prayer call. No one traveling back across the ocean next to me- exclaiming that we get cheese with dinner.

To you readers, my words about Garly only make as much sense as my words about America make to people in Garly. How do I convey the enormity of a goat slaughtering to an American who can eat a hamburger for 99 cents? How to show a Garly friend a picture of Canada without falling into the infinite abyss of things they don’t know about my luxurious life?

There is no bridge. I float between the extremes taking notes in my graph paper journal. I remember mini milkshakes and fancy dresses as my back smarts from digging at the ground. I am from the moon and have landed on Mars.