Place I do(n't) belongn

Today an old dream died.
That there might be a place where I could go where I would instantly be my best self
I could take with me all the things I am proud of, and leave my shit behind
I'd bring the clothing I look beautiful in and the books I ought to read.
Make only enough money to get by and want only what it could purchase.
work selfless all day, and improve myself in every spare minute at night.
With none of the trappings of my previous corrupt life and self, I could be only good.

Where is this place? Strangely I placed the wishing on to something so particular.-internships-
go and work for strangers, and accept housing as payment. if they do good work they must be better people than you, and if you make their life your life, you will instantly be good.

In Portland the distance between this dream and reality was devastating, and I struggled with it. made some peace and left. It was hard and messy, and I learned a lot and have no regrets.

Part of what allowed me to feel good about leaving was the plans I'd made. teaching crafts this summer, farming for the spring.


The one week on the farm, well, that killed this dream.


At first I was only embarrassed at my own assumptions of what this place that hired me would be like. My gut learned quickly what my brain already knew: that growing up in farmland, you are a very different person than that rosy-faced city slicker who got in to growing food out of their politics. This farm is not a lovely liberal haven but a business. A hard day's work. I felt determined to learn about growing food here as some antidote to that brain-oriented urban world I grew up in to.

But slowly I found the people mean, and felt myself embroiled in interpersonal dynamics that would obviously only get messier. Felt on edge in their home. Was not learning much about how they did things, was not so impressed with what I could glean, after all the on-paper idealist farm theory, the time spent with farmers with perspectives more like mine. Sure, privilege and class and culture all helped me feel uncomfortable at this farm, but just because people aren't like me doesn't automatically make them better people, either. They can still be in fucked up power dynamic relationships, unhappy zombie work lives, slaves to the television just like everyone else. Labelling them 'authentic' and translating that to wisdom is as condescending as it is respectful.

My best self lies in the trajectory I was born in to. Problematic as it may be, it is not a worse story than anyone else's. Instead of living for free in the house of struggling strangers, I'm now in the second home of my own family, whose abundances and struggles I know too well project any false dreams in to. I can't believe it's come to this, living here for free for the month, working for neighbors to make some spending money. This is not to say I ought to live here without deliberation, or even without guilt. But for now it feels right.

I'm not going to aim for this liberation through uprooting: drastically changing location, or willing my interests, passions and joys to change. Kerry made a good point about this, that I've been thinking a lot: it can be a terrible thing to live on one's born privileges, but it can be antagonistic to refuse one's privilege and believe that salvation lies in pretending I'm self-made. Everyone is community made. All of this support from my family, these opportunities or ways of thinking I have learned from this college I paid for, I do not want reject them on principle, I want to sort them. I am not transplanting, I am pruning myself and my family tree.