It’s the third week into National Poetry Month, and I don’t have much to show other than a couple of musings.
I don’t write down half of what I spend nights pondering over.
I don’t write love poems. I don’t write angry poems. I don’t write pride poems… honestly imperfect human poems.
I was recently asked to proofread an essay–nothing atypical there. Yet, I loved every bit regardless of grammar because of the content. I was reminded of the different worlds people come from. The U.S. has given me my second, remembered part of childhood. I’ve learned to love what is American, including exaggerated pride. Though I’m an immigrant, it’s a label I forget: I have never missed my country because there isn’t much for me to miss. You can’t miss what you don’t remember.
As I read the essay, something rung true with me: American stress. My mom is always telling me how everything is so rushed at her job. I see that in many of the people I know. They’re all in such a rush, so much to do and so little time for things that matter…. things like a good night’s rest and time well-spent with family and friends.
That stress is gnawing at me, too. Yes, volcanoes will erupt if our bills aren’t paid. Yes, the stars will collide and cease to exist if I pick part-time school over full-time. Yes, every decision I’ve ever made must come undone before anything works out.
Yes, that was sarcasm, dear reader. American stress = drama queens.