to be an expat

How can I even begin to explain the experiences of an expat?  The great assumption is that East and West are terribly different. One is vilified, the other painted as a land of patriots and heroes. One is crude and filthy the other has streets paved with gold. Look up and you will see miracles of architecture. Beyond the windows there are supposed to be good people, open smiles and warm hearts. How can I tell you that none of this is true? How can I untie my shoes, and somehow put them on your feet three thousand miles away? You would never believe what secrets they have to tell.

Every time I go back to the states I become more embarrassed to be an American. I overhear conversations in the street, the whines of privileged and moneyed voices. Coddled, dumbed-down and mislead they are drunk on a calculated fairly tale. And then back in Moscow, the same ignorance - the same questions from curious taxi drivers about how good it must be in America, where everything is possible and life must be good. Being an expat means you have ugly news to share, truths that no one wants to embrace. We live in a time of moral and cultural bankruptcy. The global currencies of thought and understanding has been replaced with dime-store wisdom, feel-good slogans and palatable fictions.

There are people in Santa suits drunk and shitting on cars in the middle of the afternoon where I come from. That is what it is to be an expat. There are documents I must register every time I travel in order to walk the streets of Moscow, papers I must have with me every time I step out of the house. That is what it is to be an expat. There is more news of corruption and privilege today. There is good maple syrup in the fridge now. I came home with bags full of clothing for V and N, scarves and shoes, pyjamas and sweaters.

I sat in the kitchen, and drank a cup of sweet hot tea and looked out at the snow piling high on the windowsill.