shed skin mourning

Almost survived the weekend without an altercation with the parents over something poiltical. At breakfast Dad was reading the paper and said something about "...another reason for France to hate us." Mia was sitting right there and as her mind is a hungry sponge right now, I couldn't let it go. I pleaded with him not to generalize an entire country and make ignorant statements with his granddaughter listening. I was perhaps too sensitive considering the anti-Japan propaganda I beat my head against in China. I didn't want to hear it in my own land, from my own blood. I didn't want Mia to have a "loss of respect moment" with her grandfather. I had one with my grandmother mentioning some racist stuff, and it hurt then, still hurts now. I want Mia to honor her grandparents for as long as possible, maintain that respect level for as long as possible.

I've said it before: Republicans are merely liberals who lack the imagination to empathize. They are human, have feelings, but it takes reality smacking them in the head to change their minds. They make blanketed, fiercely ignorant statements about drug addicts, minorities or homosexuals and live in a self-centered way until they find their son or daughter is or is dating one. Why does it take that extreme to turn them around? Why can't they have the imagination to walk in someone else's shoes?

It didn't escalate the way other arguments have gone, and I bowed out explaining I was overly sensitive because of my China experience. The day was too hot and Mom drove me and Mia back early, my cruiser bike in the back, rescued from the dusty shed. I uploaded pictures some more, made plans to eat sushi with L.A. then found out I had been recruited to help Jenn move some furniture. I tried to rearrange the time for earlier so I could do both, but then L.A. ran late and it didn't matter anyway.

We went to Beluga, dined, had champagne, talked about living abroad and the changes it wrought. Since I've gotten back, I've felt a distance like I'm still looking for my ghost on the horizon, a "thousand yard stare" coupled with a desire to cry, and to flee the country again. I don't feel like I have a home space, that I'm "just visiting" anywhere I go, although if there is anything closest to a "home" I feel it's in Moab. L.A. talked me through it, saying that the need to cry had nothing to do with sadness, but rather mourning for the me I used to be, a skin I shed in China, rejoicing a transition that occurred.

She has lived in many different countries from her modeling days, and I'm glad she knows the feeling I'm going through. It makes me feel less insane. We went back to her place where she gave me a ceramic piece she designed for me, a beautiful vase with a metallic glaze, dappled and rippled patterns, very desert-looking. Then we went to Alive One to shoot pool. One game turned into several and suddenly it was half past twelve. I called Amy and Haven, who said they'd be up soon. I was coerced into talking to a girl named Sarah about teaching abroad, then they showed. L.A. was hanging out with other billiard enthusiasts, so we took off to West Chester and crashed.