this is a poem I’ve been writing over the past week about my thought process on coming home. I don’t know what the next season of life looks like for me, but I do know what lies the enemy often tries to tell me and how I want to remember and apply what I’ve learned on the Race at home.
Let me know what you think!
The American Dream– a result of living in the land of the free,
But i keep asking myself what that actually means,
Living a “normal” life, getting a college education to live up to society’s expectation because after graduation it’s really time to become an adult.
Time to get a real job, no more parental consult,
Paying your own bills when you’re ill, making doctor’s appointment but to your disappointment you realize a staring salary isn’t really that much and you’re suddenly much more in touch with Sia’s Cheap Thrills,
Because being broke is kind of a buzz kill when your heart is sold on the goal of the American Dream.
But my point is that maybe the American Dream isn’t all that it seems,
The pressure to “live up” to parents’ inherent expectations while the fermentation of one thought in my head continues to leave a bitter aftertaste–
What if I become something I hate?
Questions are coming that I can’t run from,
People are going to ask, people are going to guess,
What will I do next, and will it meet the American standard of success?
America says I’ve had my year of fun,
and now that nine months are nearly done,
It’s time to “figure out my life,”
Maybe become someone’s wife, get a real job, or maybe a stay-at-home mom,
But can you really point the blame or call me insane for thinking the American Dream has been so ingrained that we’ve all just become slaves to the mundane?
And I’m just over here on my own and alone,
Pulling my chains taunt– straining towards the things I actually want.
So now this is the question,
The only thing I’m left with, as it would seem since I’ve abandoned the uncandid dream,
And I’ve been so caught up in the American repitoir,
I have to ask myself,
Do I even know what my own dreams are?
Do I even know what my heart strives for?
I could land a nice nine to five or more with my four-year degree in psychology,
Because I got my college education without much hesitation,
And at graduation I was only nineteen, but I had a bigger dream than getting my PhD.
Yeah, Doctor Losik soured nice, but instead I rolled the dice–
Found myself teaching English even when it wasn’t my wish,
And I’m not gunna say eating PB & J everyday was great,
And having eighteen roommates is still something I kind of hate,
But I also love it and the Lord has taught me to rise above it,
Cut the bullshit on my personal preferences because I don’t have immunity to living in community,
But I have learned and received grace I didn’t deserve,
But that’s just what grace is,
Something we can’t earn.
And even though my heart yearns for the ease of eating real American cheese,
The cool breeze of central AC,
My sister’s smile just a few miles across the city,
Some shitty first apartment (because that’s what everyone starts with),
But the truth cuts like a knife,
Because I know I could never live that life even though it sounds so nice.
It sounds sweet and easy.
But I know the enemy likes to tease me with the ease,
The simplicity.
That the trinity would still love me unconditionally if I chose the American Dream.
But I know it would never be as it seems.
Life is still hard when you believe in God,
People still suffer and life is tougher for some more than others and I don’t know why,
But I have to try.
I have to try to rectify the pain in the eyes of a little girl named Spo,
Who doesn’t know the word “love,”
But she does know what it’s like to not have enough–
Stomach, empty and swollen,
Shoes with holes in them,
Tired eyes with bags underneath,
Clothes mostly rags that reek of last weeks’ sweat, snot, and sleep,
She doesn’t talk much but she loves physical touch,
Because what the does say is “entante,” or “hold me” in Siswati,
As if someone told her she had to ask to be loved,
To be touched.
And I know she’s not technically my responsibility,
But if I just walked away I’m suddenly in the majority of becoming another liability.
And honestly, seeing true poverty changes you,
Rearranges your priorities and forces you to become a part of America’s minority,
Counting the cost and seeking the lost,
Giving up superficial thinks for the supernatural King,
And I know it hurts being a part of the the church,
Serving the Lord,
But I also know I’m meant for more.
And I’m not trying to condemn any of them who do choose the American Dream over living life overseas,
Because you can do both–
America still needs hope,
But just be resistant, please, to the persistent ease of America’s mundane,
Because her chains are disguised and you don’t realize the routines are what make you forget what you’ve seen and who you’ve met,
Everything you wanted to be when you lived overseas,
And then it hits you in your very core,
You remember,
You were made for more.
