Fringe

I love to travel. I love seeing different places and people, getting into the vibe of an event away from home, connecting in some superficial way with others there doing the same thing.

That's the keyword: connecting. When I'm in a strange city, I'm not the only outsider. I'm not the only one who has no clue how to read the transit map, who stops to stare at the architecture, who pays attention to the kid beating on plastic buckets for quarters. I'm not the only one who takes pictures or raves over the local cuisine. I belong, simply because I don't belong.

I like being part of a bigger something. I like knowing that others are all connected, whether it's at a concert or outdoor market or tourist attraction, knowing that all of us are there for the same reason and thus we all have at least that one thing in common. Even when someone else simply stops to watch the kid play bucket-drums, that's one tiny thing we share even if we don't acknowledge it.

I've been in my tiny speck on the map for eleven years, and I'm still an outsider here. This was made apparent to me recently when I was snubbed for not knowing who the subject of a local fundraiser was, nor that he'd been killed the night before in an accident. "Everyone knows so-and-so," someone said, in that tone that indicated "everyone" meant "you obviously aren't from here or you'd know, and you're nobody if you're not local."

I'll always live on the fringe. Even if I had kids in the schools and attended church socials and fundraisers and town meetings, I'd always be From Somewhere Else. And I'll always be wanting to visit somewhere else, someplace I can connect with total strangers instead of being labeled by the neighbors. I'll never be completely happy here. I want this to be Home but I'll always feel like a guest. Aren't we all guests on this rock anyway?