Language is a poor translator.
You ask me how a moment feels, and after proper consideration I say, “Like Rwanda,” and you think I’m being poetic-yet-again, soft, weird, strangely romantic; but I’m telling you that it feels like making a dangerous game of running barefoot because it’s that hot in the summer, like visiting family who live on mountains so far removed that at night the fireflies light the edge of the world and the stars are big enough to be a handful, like classrooms with no doors and teachers with sticks big enough to beat knowledge into you, like laughing hysterically after a rabid dog bites your friend in the butt, like granddad laughing about bombs placed in his cars, like knowing dad by his presence in the shadows of your memories.
… and I say, “Like Kenya,” and I’d mean it feels like being introduced to other worlds, like hearing R. Kelly’s “I Believe I Can Fly” over and over again in your aunt’s house, like watching “The Amazing Panda Adventure” in summer camp completely fascinated, like placing your hand on a hot iron for the first time.
… and I say, “Like Texas,” and I’d mean it feels like mom leaving your sister and you home alone again to work another double-shift at the hospital so that you won’t want, like cigarette butts everywhere, like literally being the poster child for your school because you’re Black and your friends are White, Latino, Indian; like realizing that the Latina in your classes who you have a crush on is the daughter of the school’s janitress, that she eats lunch with her mom every day and gets teased for it, like feeling snow for the first time and forgetting French.
… and I say, “Like Georgia,” and I’d mean it feels like finishing two too many two hour tests in ten minutes and finally realizing that even boys of colour think boys of colour are supposed to play ball so I guess I’ll get a couple of these answers wrong, like watching people get stabbed for shoes, like yellow school buses filled with Bloods, Crips, and Vatos; like summers spent by the pool, Khia’s “My Neck My Back” blasting while your band of lost boys make robbery a children’s game, like a cliched death.
… and I say, “Like Toronto,” and I’d mean it feels like sleeping in class because you were too busy hacking all night with people you’ll never meet in real life and no one’ll believe you, like the teacher telling you to leave class because she doesn’t believe you, like condo parties with peoples of the local scenes, like knowing the people on television, like the greatest sister in the world, like all your English teachers unknowingly becoming mother figures, like playing chess intoxicated after rehearsal with dance acquaintances who’ve become family, like weekend road trips to Montreal, like initiation after initiation, like making a fool of yourself drunk, like jumping through hoops and pledging allegiance to a new country, like sex on the beach not being the best part, like indoors, like learning how to take care of and be taken care of by people.
… and I say, “Like Thailand,” and I’d mean it feels like never cooking because everyone in the city cooks, like drinking fruit smoothies first thing in the morning after another forgotten night of drinking, like jogging through a city you barely know with eyes on you, like watching all the tourists miss the good parts, like monks challenging you to dance battles in the middle of the street, like hugging elephants goodbye while they mischievously blow mud all over your clean clothes.
Yeah, yeah, it’s all but a poor translation, but you know what, allow us this – this Fool’s Gold, bad currency is all we have.