A Stranger

Standing here I remember the reasons for this journey and the justification I had to give just for it to begin. Emigration is a word we all have familiarity with but one we wrap in turmoil and guilt. It's perceived as a choice you flippantly make when the reality is quite the opposite. The town I am from is nothing more than an empty caucus of what it used to be. I can see myself now walking up the same barren streets stripped of their identity. When you see local headlines about investment into the town's economy you see that glimmer of hope but its soon shattered when you fail to see any physical resemblance of change.

Is that enough justification for emigration or do I need to delve into some gritter detail. Litter spewed and spat across the streets like a careless thought. Benches placed in loving memory now tarnishing among plants that look like a pitiful thought. Town centres like ghost estates full of pound shops and charity shops with chipping paint falling slowly to the floor. Cobbled streets that should be a shrine to a romantic past now just rotted with chewing gum greying at the edges. Local youths huddled close together destroying further fragments of the town highlighting the true care they have. Local businesses disappearing one by one like dominos falling. It's sad. My question to the big powers to be where's the money going?

Like ,the true reality,of where I'm from I can see myself fading away slowly becoming less and less ingrained in the place I thought I'd once knew. The northern culture of open arms and friendly people. Small businesses such as pie shops where you always guaranteed your pasties or pie freshly baked and ready to fill you with warmth. The nod of good day to your fellow neighbour and the cobbles ridges which held so much character under your boots not tarred by the stains of chewing gum. I miss that. Instead of a nod you will get mugged and assaulted by local youths and your pie shop is now an empty space with a for sale sign. Justification granted.

Standing on the boat going to my chosen home in Brooklyn from Leigh I no longer feel torn between two places I love and have loved. Leigh is home to an extent, a place I was born and raised in but also a place I have a deep connection with. But, it's no longer my home. Now America is home. Faintly, behind me, I feel the presence of a young girl, lingering anticipation vibrating in volumes from her.

Her familiar voice states, "Is this your first time in America?''

"No, I already live there. It's a big place." I bluntly state. Nodding my head in firm assurance. Overlooking the vast blueness facing me.

She replies with a hint of unawareness, "' I'm going to live in Brooklyn, New York! I might be there years!'

Nostalgia hits me. I've been here before. She is me. The girl I was not so much as a month ago. I feel I owe it to her to tell her the truth of an illness I suffered, from a sickness which strikes you down in the most haunting of ways. I remember like the sharp waves of the sea the feeling of discombobulation and disconnection. I was in exile. She interrupts my train of thought sharply, "People say there are a lot of Northern People in America. Is that right?"

I think to myself of the community of Northern People who lived in New York. A home away from home. Its familiarity enclosed with a small notion of strangeness. You feel welcomed, arms are open wide, but they also inflicted me with a deeper sense of homesickness. Turbulent.

"Yes." I quickly rush by her almost preparing myself to tell her a harmful truth.

I blurt, "Don't eat! Promise me you won't get sick."

The girl inquisitively answers, "But, why? I promise."

"The journey is long, and you will be violently homesick. Lock your cabin and if next door starts hammering that's when you can negotiate." I reply.

It did not end there though the familiarity of her situation would allow me to ease the turbulence further.

"When you get to Customs keep your head high. Simply act like you're American. Keep your chin held high." I tell her.

"The homesickness will hit you. You will think that you will die from it, but you won't. Endure it." I reply familiarly.

One day in the future - as I know - the sun will come out and it will be shining so clearly that you can see that this is where your life is. Surviving homesickness and feeling the calm waters at your feet is an enduring process. Standing tall against the harshness of brick I can feel the warmth of light illuminating my face. And I think of someone with some connection to the past or something but that will all become insignificant. Instead, the light focuses on him, simply him. You will tell yourself with the affirmed assurance that this is where your life is, now with him.