To Belong or not to belong?

My friend Luis used to tag along with me everywhere because he liked going to different settings he wouldn’t know in life otherwise. Many times, even if he wasn’t sure how the event will end, he agreed on going with me or joining me. That’s how I got him into trouble that time we were kick out from a gated community for rich people because I took a swim in the middle of the night. We also ended up dancing on the stage of Teatro Giratablas, among the volunteers who worked at the international festival of arts this year. Luis often recalls with some pride these and many other settings he’s been once, just by chance or fortune; places where he shouldn’t simply be, a paradox in time and space. I didn’t acknowledge that to him at the moment, but that was really adventurous of him.

I, even if I have traveled some, played very safe until this last year. I always knew where I was going, for how long, all calculated. Although I cannot take any credit for it, life and work have given me that one time of being in places where I clearly do not belong. Italy, right now, is fully of those.  Since my bosses over here are taking my apprenticeship even more seriously than I am, they have taken me along a lot of places I clearly do not belong. I’ve been attending meetings with politicians, lawmakers, heads of foundations, and more recently, commissions of professors of the University of Cagliari. I’ve shaken hands with lots of people I was never meant to. I have been introduced as a colleague from Costa Rica when I never studied Politics, Human Relations, or anything related. I, who have somehow made a way in the global NGO world, keep on being pushed to a world I don’t belong. It took me some getting used to, but I’m loving it. There were instances before when I didn’t fit in and enjoyed: filming a commercial because no one else wanted the green man role, translating for an impromptu real state meeting in Panama, that time my family got lost in a guided tour on a Peruvian Naval Ship and we ended up using the captain’s private toilet (it seems to run deeper in the Lopez Aguilera .) All this shall pass, and I’ll be left behind with the picture of me taking a coffee on the legislators café, 3^rd of 4^th floor of the Sardinian local government, laughing a bit to myself because I am immature like that and enjoy the irony of being out of place when only I, a simple language laureate, get to sit on all these tables I was never supposed to sit on on first place.

I’ve been giving some insider privilege I don’t fully finish to comprehend. I am a paradox over here, and I continue to be so. It took me by surprise that the president of the organization asked me in confidence why I had come here if my profile really didn’t fit what a volunteer/intern does. He sees me a bit of a paradox. I clearly do not belong to the world of meetings where words fix the world, but I’m there anyway. My suspicion is that he takes me as the good kind of paradox. Still, the prospect of not fitting right in took me aback. From all the places I don’t belong, I was surprised work, such an essential part of what I do in my new life, is a place I have to yet learn how to belong.

When I go to the streets, I get the same feeling of not belonging; just the frustrating type. Of course I don’t speak Italian natively, and my attempts to do it so remain poor. This morning, I said “permesso” (excuse me) to two girls who blocked my way on the side way. It might be that I came too close and spoke too gravely, but I never expected them to jump.  This is just the first of so many awkward situations I’ve been exposed to recently. I have redefined awkward pretty much. The signs of not belonging continue every time I phrase does not come out as it should have and with every social convention I step on, unaware or simply too feed up to care about for the day.

See how complicated the matter has become. Under a different approach, though, I can see the places where I belong. I came with some volunteers who have embraced me (in the extent that one can embrace a stranger.) With them, working and cohabitating, I’ve felt I’ve belong. We speak the same language of feeling disoriented and a similar broken Italian that has made us team up somehow.  The universe got crazy enough to make me landing with people who are actually interesting in writing and creating art. I’m being constantly challenged by other people talking about their stories, and I can’t stay idle (oh, and this weekend alone, I’m attending a Queer Film festival and a Fantasy Book convention: hard not to want to belong in there.)  I left a pen pal in Costa Rica, and mailing with him ignites my creativity and helps me exploring my feelings in a carefree way. It seems I belong or rather was meant to experience this at this time. My flatmates eat healthily and speak of exercise, which goes with the changes I wanted to implement in my life for good. The cold is an issue to stay close to the sea all the times, but that color blue washes away any of my worries. It hypnotizes me and makes me feel good. This proximity to the sea, beautifully juxtaposed to old stone towers and churches uphill stand as my newest source of inspiration. … 2 out of 10 times, a conversation flows wonderfully in Italian, and I’m even able to make Sardinians laugh. The whole world could tell me I was out of place at that moment, that I wouldn’t believe it.  It’s going to be a month since I came here soon, and there’s a war between the experiences that make me feel that I don’t belong in a negative way and those who reconcile myself with the choice of coming here. I’m starting to miss home now, but that’s when the world gets complicated. In the simplicity of the smell of the sea and the sound of the seagulls and people speaking an euphonic language, I’m more than content.  Maybe in the future I’ll look back to this and decide I didn’t really belong, but the bets are on that being one nice memory of not belonging, like being kicked out of a gated community, drenched and half-dressed but having the best time.