You can never leave home

My daughter has just come back from a week in Belgium. She visited my family, the places where I grew up; my niece took her to the beach where my cousins and I roamed long ago; and she sent dozens of lovely pictures. Radiant smiles, blue skies, ancient buildings along canals.

But here is the thing: my son and daughter grew up hearing me say, with intensity, I hate Belgium. They watched me grimace when introduced to a person with fond memories of Belgium who sang of its charms. They saw my fight and flight response when it came up in random conversation. Just for a family joke once, they draped me in a Belgian flag and posted that photo on the family’s picture show. At least that time, for the love of them, I managed a mild grin.

Years ago, I went to see a movie that was supposed to be set in Amsterdam. At the opening scene, I startled my husband with a full-fledged PTSD response; I jumped up in the theater, heart racing. “That’s my hometown,” I gasped. “No, it’s not,” he said, “it’s Amsterdam. Settle down.” I later confirmed that the move was filmed in Gent, Belgium, on a canal reminiscent of the famous ones in Amsterdam.

Often enough, a puzzled person asks me why I hate the place so much, and I have answers to offer. Worst colonial country ever. Self-satisfied people, bourgeois. Mediocre education system. Etc. Occasionally I will add that I happen to come from a pretty dysfunctional family. Privately, I know that putting the nearest ocean between my young self and them has saved my life. Bless the Atlantic Ocean, the buffer that allowed me to become.

And yet now, decades later, a curious thing is happening. A long life brings many memories. I see images bubble up, faces, words, relationships that helped me grow up. And some of the really wonderful memories are from that place. Weekends with my cousins, roaming free, while parents were oblivious to us. A high school friend whose family offered a beacon of warmth. The Youth Group where I discovered I am happiest if I can do something useful. I discovered the gift of solitude on my bike along the river, exploring the marshes, soothed by nature. In my folk-singing group, the joy of protest songs. The company of family dogs.

I spent years trying to eradicate the first twenty-four years of my life. It cannot be done. With enough distance, I now learn to reclaim them. And it turns out the bad stuff too is part of me, and that is the part that made me strong. Those years taught me to be furious about all injustice; I mean viscerally furious, like a child. And they gave me a role model or two for fighting oppression, transforming that raw fury into an action plan.

Free from black-and-white image of my past, the path is easier. The load is lighter. Besides, the place I loathed has taught me that despair is not an option.

That is a great gift.

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