As I was preparing the roux, a dark chocolate base of butter and flour used in the gumbo, gathering the ingredients for the king cake, and setting-out the decorations for mask making, the term 'expatriate' went through a sifting process. I thought about the feelings I had when I first moved away from New Orleans to Lafayette, Louisiana for college. I recalled the transition from Louisiana culture to the Bay Area of San Francisco, California when I moved there for graduate school. By the conclusion of my California stay, I was well prepared for the move to Austin, Texas where I bought a home, raised my children and developed deep friendships over the next twenty-five years. I realized that I had been an expatriate for more than half of my life. I have actively, though unknowingly, been preparing for this encore life in another country.
The similar challenges I face now were ones I faced when I first began my early adult life in a new city. The French spoken in Lafayette is archaic in comparison to the formal lessons I received throughout high school. The coffee house discussions in Berkeley were just as invigorating as eavesdropping on the frisky frolics of New Orleans debutantes. Who knew that learning about subatomic Z particles would be as entertaining as learning to dance to Zydeco music! And that Cajun rhythm lead me to two-stepping my way across Texas, seeking out the best jerky across the state, and falling in love with Scrub Oak. Now, if you have ever had the opportunity to be cradled in the arm of a Live Oak, you know that this is an act of Gawd (typically pronounced as 'God' by outsiders).
Odd how an annual tradition can flood our hearts with memories from our other life times. I felt myself reaching for the hands of women from New Orleans, who after Hurricane Katrina landed in the cultural scenes of cities and states that were wholly unfamiliar to them. I prayed for the brave women and children I counseled who had been forced to leave home, possessions, and friends, as a safety measure and attempt to free themselves from a violent relationship. Living in a foreign country is a limiting definition for what it means to be an expatriate.
I’ve thrown many gumbo, king cake, and mask making parties throughout my adult life. For the few who willingly left New Orleans to the many displaced after Hurricane Katrina, New Orleanians know the necessity of tradition. We breathe in a measured rhythm that takes on the beat of a high school jazz band. Throw me somethin’ Mister', a call for beads and doubloons from the krew members on decorated parade floats, is our survivalist cry; a cry for understanding and compassion, not for a handout.
I had a great deal of difficulty deciding the direction for this post. Like a really great gumbo, every step adds to the rich flavor. All the basic needs of expat women were informally addressed through one simple act – a party. This celebration with new friends offered space for laughter and deep sharing. We had opportunities to connect and network. Each woman had at least one hand they could comfortably hold. Our collective feminine voices presented perspectives that rang true for each. The keys to our former lives were safely tucked under the doormat as we entered into an entire house filled with present memory. We landed safely into the newness of this new year. You will as well. I promise!
Many years ago, one of my very favorite women, told me that she always knew with whom she would have a deep connection. Her tip to us is to ask and be asked a question of importance. Challenge yourself to ask ten questions or the same question of ten different women. Share your results!
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1 comment:
What I got out of this, being someone who moves around a lot, is that it is the people in your life with whom you have a deep connection that constitutes your "home", and you wouldn't have found them had you not been in those places at those times, and comfortable with that.
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