March 4th
I found this interesting entry in a Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, which itself is an interesting website — (https://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com) — “monachopsis n. the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place”.
That perfectly describes what we feel like in a new environment and I realized that I know this feeling (I wouldn’t call it a sorrow) very well. I lived for so many years abroad, I traveled extensively and there were times that I strongly felt it — never in big cities, which are in a lot of ways the same around the world — loud, busy, flashy, rushed and crowded. It always happened in small towns, or out in the nature. It felt at first like a light trembling inside my body, not unpleasant per se but persistent enough to notice it. Then I would be overwhelmed by thoughts that I don’t belong here. The profound sadness would follow.
Then I would go home, or a hotel, or wherever I had a place to stay, and I would start to drink, thinking how deep am I, and how deep are my emotions to feel something like that…(yeah, any excuse I could get to get drunk would do).
I think the first time I experienced it was in Kingston, upstate New York. Or mid-Hudson Valley. Or southern Capital Region. New York State has many unofficial subdivisions, but that’s a topic for different post. I love that town. I only lived there for less than a year (and has subsequently visited frequently many times). That was in 1994 and Kingston NY was dying. Dying since IBM had closed a production facility on outskirts of town where more than 7000 people worked in 70s and 80s. There was crime, prostitution, widespread poverty and no hope. And yet I loved that town, I remember thinking that that’s where I see myself settling down. A perfect mixture of rough charm of a small town, plenty of history, Catskill Mountains and Hudson River on the doorstep, New York City only a 2-hour drive away.
I worked nights then, and many days, mid-morning I would go for a walk in the center of the town. It was usually deserted on weekdays and by the end of the walk I would usually stop at the old colonial cemetery by the Old Dutch Church on the corner of Main and Wall Street.
It was in the spring, April most likely. There was a not-yet-overpowering-but-you-know-hot-and-humid-summer-is-coming-soon sun in my face. I stood there lost in the surge of emotions thinking “what the hell am I doing here? I want to be here, I love being here, but I know I don’t belong here, this place will never be mine, and I will never belong to this place” and trembling.
The trembling moved from the inside of my body to my fingers and hands, I could hear the hum of cars on the Albany Avenue a couple of blocks away. I wanted to cry. There was no other person within my sight, only some crows crowing in the grass by the church looking for fresh acorns. I just remember thinking — “I don’t belong here”.
I don’t know where I belong. I want to, no — not want to — I need to find out where is my place.
