Who would’ve guessed that I still haven’t succumbed to tears, haven’t broken down about leaving Oxford? I hope that my deep, and I think abiding, love for that place has been apparent this year. I’ve anticipated a moment, this dark moment, when I realize, definitively, that I’m not going back anytime soon.
I think that my stubbornness has formed a protective shield between me and that moment. That this is but a break from Oxford is a delusion I can’t shake off—and do I want to?
My time back thus far has been wonderful. Visiting Georgetown and being in DC for the fourth was exactly what I needed: a glimpse of how great (I think) senior year will be and a strong dose of patriotism. I can’t help but admit that when I sang “America, my home sweet home” in front of the Capitol at the fourth of July firework show and concert, I was very proud and felt so blessed to be home. Though I love England more than ever, America vied for my attention, and said, “hey, this is why you love me—I’m unforgettable, too.”
I had this feeling, as I walked around Georgetown, of intense déjà vu. Of walking on autopilot and ending up somewhere without knowing how I got there; even after a 14-month absence, Georgetown is my home, the routes to my favorite places ingrained in who I am. Even with how much I love and miss Oxford, I can’t deny these places that have so profoundly shaped me—my homes.
It’s disorienting, too, though, this question of which country has more of a claim on me. The answer is obvious—America, my home country. But at the same time, I find myself readjusting to the right side of the road, one dollar bills instead of one pound coins, and American accents as though I am a true Brit. Even though it is just readjusting rather than adjusting—a fine distinction.
I changed my language on Microsoft Word back from English (United Kingdom) to English (United States) today. I paused, wondering if I would start to cry. I find myself doing that, all too often—will you cry, Ellie? Are you hurting? Shouldn’t you be hurting?
This numbness is pervasive. But subtle. It taints my reunions and makes me feel slightly melancholy—deprived even of the drama of being fully melancholy. But at the same time...I can’t regret the lack of hurt. It’s there. Under the surface. I think what I need to realize is that it isn’t a quick band aid to be ripped off, a sobbing fit that can be confronted and then I can move on. This will be a long, long adjustment process. When I pack to go back to Georgetown will be one step. When term starts at Oxford will be another. When I miss my friends there particularly much will be another. When I crave a cider. And want to see those dreamy spires. Ugh, I have to stop this list before it gets out of control.
What I hadn’t expected was this feeling of remoteness from Oxford. Yes, the distance—and money it takes to traverse that distance—is a practical way in which I can’t return to Oxford. But somehow it is the endlessly aggravating end-date to my time at Oxford that feels absolute. Irrevocable. It’s the knowledge that I can’t go back, even if I could somehow scrape together the money and time. My little room will soon be occupied by someone else. Most of my friends are gone for the summer or for good. The year came to an end, without my permission.
And now I’m trying to cope and move on. And it’s not as hard or impossible as I had thought it would be. There are lots of little hurts, cushioned by this numbness. There are so many beautiful moments too, seeing and feeling cherished by those I love, hugging some of my best friends and family members as I have longed to do so many times for six or even 14 months.
This year has been unforgettable. My love for Oxford isn’t dissipating anytime soon. But I’m glad I’ve finally grasped onto something I couldn’t originally handle—the reality of how wonderful it is to come home, even when I had to leave another home to do so.
No comments:
Post a Comment