These are reasons why I cried (way too often to admit) when I first immigrated to Canada:
I wanted to express how all of this felt (the rude culture shock and other consequences of uprooting one’s entire life and throwing it on foreign soil) to someone who might hear me, but I didn’t speak the language. I wanted to understand what was going on around me and be an active member of my surroundings, but I didn’t understand the language. I wanted to be able to read my textbooks and get the right answers to teachers’ questions, but I couldn’t read the language. I wanted to write, because it was my favourite thing to do and one ability I prided myself for having, but I was illiterate. I wanted to be popular and loved – who doesn’t want to be popular and loved at that age? – but I was alone, locked inside myself with no way out. I watched TV and felt ugly. I wanted to be the best at everything, because I am and have always been a ridiculously ambitious girl, but I was slow and stupid and “god, you don’t understand anything I say!” and “why do I have to be paired up as partner with someone who doesn’t even speak English?” and “tell the class about your life back home” and “go home”.
But all that salt water was not wasted, so it’s okay. It fell on my skin and hardened there, left a mark. Some of it I swallowed and it dripped all around my heart and made a shell of crystals. It taught me to give a damn about people who are miserable (way more miserable than I have ever been) and indifferently left out in the cold. It taught me to be angrier for better reasons. It taught me to be less selfish. It taught me how to say “fuck you and your condescending asshole”.
And now I love it, this salt on my skin and around my heart. I love it most, sometimes more than anything else in me. It is my comrade-in-arms. It is my best friend. I used to resent it, thought it was proof that I was weak, but I don’t anymore. Now I know better. I feel better.