kyrasantae | The Longest Road (I gave up on the irregular adjectives.)

A thousand thoughts, a thousand memories, a thousand stories - how am I ever supposed to begin?

I understand the words around me; hearing vicariously my own tongue only through the music with which I surround myself.

As much as I try to stop myself, this story reduces itself to differences and snapshots, not memories as it should be. Since few know nor care what this meant to me, most want the descriptions and not the feelings. Anyone could go and see for themselves, but feelings aren't shared that way.

I have to believe, with all my heart, in becoming a teacher, because that is the most certain of uncertain roads for finding my way home.

I am a little glad that I was disinterested in the North Americans, for they have gone places for the reason of going places in the name of photos of each other and friendship with their own kind. I went places to see my friends, to live their lives, and incidentally they show me around. My country is not an exhibit; it is sacred. No country deserves to be an exhibit.

Rather than leave with memories of new friends, I left with memories of the land - feelings that cannot be relived anywhere else on this earth because it is not so much whom I was with but where I was.

I expected something more extraordinary, but I now realize that it can only be what is was, no more, no less.

My love borders on the edge of the most dreaded exoticism as, lacking in substance, I grasp at anything left that I may encounter.

Torn away from home, not knowing when I will return - but my brothers and sisters will be waiting for me.

It hurts more to go back to a life in a place where I know now know for sure I do not belong than to go home.

In the last week, free of the "international student" label, I finally felt free of any pressure to be anything but myself. And though I had the time and opportunity otherwise, I spent a lot of time sleeping irregularly and poking about on computers. I don't care for museums regardless of what you may say about the relationship between shared history and culture, and I don't care for harbour cruises and fortress islands. But I do care for the experience of the day-to-day life and homes of Real Finnish People™ (or in this case, Real Finnish Students™ without full-time summer jobs). And so that week was worth more, even though I did less.

It was so liberating to be able to be myself without anyone taking issue with how I dress or act, to not have anyone trying to dictate to me some identity that I don't feel much anything for. People there are trusted to seek their identity for themselves, and trusted that no matter where they end up, that identity is authentic. This trust is not in the spirit of punishing them with their own mistakes but faith in our human ability to decide what values are important to us, and our ability to negotiate those when they sometimes don't work out to be for the best.

There I may be damned for my race, but I will not be damned for my beliefs, my manner of dress, my interests and aspirations, or my character - the very opposite of what I face here.