Becoming an American

The Journey Begins —

Many years have come and gone since I first saw myself  coming to this place called America, actually, to experience it all. And then later, much later to report on it, in a way very much like a living artefact except that I must live it, feel it, smell it, even revel in it. And with this in mind I have come to understand that America and its geography, just like any other place in time, occupying the present, the future and the past are all relative incidents, sometimes slipping seamlessly in and out of a single interchangeable consciousness.

I am standing now above it all, looking out and down, examining my life, every twist and turn of it. As with a river, I follow every meander with the clarity and purpose of a drone these days. 

In this America, but for the fact that I was born acknowledging the certainty that I am a universal soul, I too, as so many many others would have been trapped in one of these incidents of time, cocooned in a sort of self absorption and desperation. (I am thinking of Ancient Rome), unwilling fodder or  triumphant gladiator. 

This is America today…it has contorted and morphed itself from the early African eras into and out of Mesopotamia and Egypt to the Greeks and the Romans, down through that consortium of the Portuguese, the British, the Dutch…It is now attempting to devour itself, bashing itself against the thorns it sowed along the road. And it goes about all this as if in a trance, in a dream, trapped.

Still there is hope—Yes it must wriggle and wrench itself free from this nightmarish dream, It must leave behind the curses with which humanity is inherently afflicted…I speak of the sins of greed and hate, gluttony and pride.

The year now is 2025 and yes, indeed, as its forefathers had envisioned America is simply an experiment just as much as the early Greeks, trying to be better than its individual parts, an experiment about to face up to its ultimate test—does it live or does it die; does it retreat into the wretchedness of a tribal past or does it emerge into humanity’s promise of brotherhood of all mankind. 

This America is now entering the wilderness of its own discontent and only after its transformation will it emerge to display its many true colors…then and only then would it accept itself as a thing of beauty…but by then those who frolicked and bowed to the golden calf  would have then died out in a wilderness of their own making, forbidden from crossing  over into the promised land. 

Those who have ears to hear let them hear.

Generally, and I am speaking now not only of America but also about but also of places like Guyana…Some of us have told ourselves that we have for the most part vanquished the institution of Slavery. We must not forget that there are others among us who still revere the idea of Slavery and  will fight with all their might to enchain the ones they think are different from themselves and which of them will not submit to this will then they and theirs must certainly be put to death. Survival recommends against this sort of tyranny only one recourse…PATIENCE.

On this planet called Earth there are Stations, as in states or pockets of humanity, and wrapped around this Earth there is the continuum, the Circle of Time along which we live in a continual blending of many many more Romes and Romans, Americas and Americans and all those that came in between.

Being in America, for me, I must confess it was more an act of surrender than anything else. Later I saw it as Releasing Myself, Untethering Myself; it was in the full sense of BECOMING. Fact is, from my earliest memory I had always considered myself a Universal Man. Yes, I had my birthright as a man and therefore I inherited the earth. The air that I breathed belonged to no one in particular, no country. The air being free and being timeless made me both ancient and modern…modern being the time in which I presently live.

I came of age when there were upheavals everywhere. It was merely ten years since The Second World War and “The Colonies” as they were called, were in no mood to stay pressed under the thumbs of the old masters. Freedom was in the air. 

Guyana’s too was in it’s throes, A People, this strange cacophony of former slaves, indentured and slave masters’s children…they also needed freedom.  It was to free themselves from the perceived common oppression that this unlikely group was thrown together, remnants from far-flung ends of the earth to serve an Empire’s greed for free and almost free Labor. It was out of this that  they banded themselves and in the face of that Empire’s weapon of “divide and conquer”, they conquered.

Perhaps I give them too much credit, perhaps because the world as it were was already a place of Tribes, they simply magnified these peoples’ differences and weaponized them…who would be in control if all they did was fight against each other?.

I was keenly aware of the strata of Guyanese Society back then…If you were white you were destined to rule. But then, putting this given aside, as the perception went, the lighter the complexion of your skin or the straighter the texture of your hair the closer you are to the throne and therefore the benefits that came along. And this followed the general misconception that light skinned people not only looked better, they were also naturally smarter and therefore they acted smart because they were expected to.

In the face of all of this that I have said before, I believe that the propensity to rebel is so deeply rooted in the human psyche, its natural consequences have been accepted since the dawn of time…that is, growth equals rebellion, equals pain, and vice versa. And it was simply because of this pain that I wanted to go to America.

It was my intention to  go to America to study. I wanted to come back then and demonstrate the value of love and togetherness. I believed I was entrusted with this mission…not by the Church, nor by any political association but by an authority that cradled all of humanity…Love.

Was it any wonder that the United States had become the mecca for the ordinary man or woman?…even the very one who sought to destroy it? Democracy is like the mother who seeks to shield the child from danger, the very child who pushes the hand away. 

My mind runs to the perceived and by all measure a manufactured chaos that is Africa…and why not…the African blood runs in my veins just as thickly as the Indian blood—One by force and the other by subterfuge — they both, my fore-parents ended up on the “Wild Coast”, later to be christened Guyana. I wondered how many hundreds of years more would it take to put again all the fractures elements of our being back together, the elements of truth…that is of Democracy and the transmission of peace that it represents.

It is the only recipe that would encourage a citizen to stay at home and build upon his or her dreams. And I am here now, willing sacrifice upon the altar of Democracy. Surrendered.

Still, I often wondered in the dead of night about other immigrants, to whichever part of the world they wandered, how much the soul yearns to return, to touch again the soil of their birth, though somehow, the spirit knows this could never be.

This is the story of every immigrant — it is the children and their children that keep them here, if not their pride—Thus begins the process of transplantation,  roots that drill down  and bind him to this new soil, that keep him struggling, hoping for a better day. It is our human story—the perennial urge to go or to stay and it is sometimes also that in some of our moment we find ourselves looking up longingly into the sky.

In the end, no one willingly returns to hopelessness, presumed or otherwise, except the very old,  too old to hope, and like the old elephant surrendering to the all powerful pull of nature must go home to die. Even so, I somehow hope that my dream realized will one day transcend to tear down the boundaries between human, soul to soul.