The world is right to be mad at the privileged, of whom I’m part. I don’t like to admit it, but I was educated at an elite school, come from a privileged family, have been afforded a future by my parents and ancestors, and have not always been grateful for it. It took me time to appreciate my situation. I inherited the luxury to not have to climb my way up a deadly cliff at every step of the way.
At the same time, I forewent many of my bestowed advantages to pursue a career in writing and filmmaking – fields where my family has no tradition or connections whatsoever.
So yes, I forced myself down a treacherous path, pushing my way through obstacles I would not have come across had I taken the easier option. I can’t imagine what it must be like to take the path that was laid out for you long ago by those who thought they knew best, and who decided that you were going to become an extension of their worldview. (Not my parents, I must say. But pretty much everyone else.)
What I can say with certainty is this: the established path isn’t easy either. It comes with challenges, and it takes a lot to make something of it. I’ve lived around many people who’ve had to deal with it, seeing first hand how it works. The established path leads either to a life of plenty or to a life in a rut. In both cases, a number of mechanisms are at your immediate disposal and many interests are aligned with your own.
But I’m glad I didn’t pursue it. Had I taken it, yes, things might have been easier at first. I would have had an up-and-running apparatus at my fingertips, plus active support from my surroundings, plus people with whom to share my activities, and the guidance of seasoned players.
Then again, I would also have faced many drawbacks, chiefly from the familiarity everyone has toward one another. The limitations of one’s native land and its crusty game, where everything follows a predictable set of rules. I would have inherited old and perpetual problems, our ever-toxic politics, which would have hampered my ability to create something new and exciting. I would have been held back, if not sabotaged, by those with vested interests, by those suffering from emotional, physical, familial, relation-driven fatigue. I speak from experience and knowledge. You can always be too close to people, unable to prevent them from laying out their ceilings over you. The familiar path is riddled with shared pitfalls and peculiar terrors, traps of a most sinister kind, which spring when you least expect them. A slippery cliff you can handle; mind your step and make it through. But a rotten plank on a familiar bridge – or a swaying bridge everyone keeps crossing, crowding each other out…
Native lands are insatiable and demented. They take life for the life they give
Native lands are insatiable and demented. They take life for the life they give, reclaiming their children, first above ground, then below. You’re expected to return to them and devote your entire life to them, and if you do, chances are you’ll have to deal with extremely unnecessary problems, care of the way things don’t change in the places you grew up. The way everyone has you pegged and treats you like they know you even if they don’t interact with you. They see you like it suits them, as they once knew you, and screw your growth and evolution – to them you’ll always be who you were, and that’s how they approach you, preventing you to be who you’ve become, or want to be, or can be, or should be.
Native lands are snares that use nostalgia to get you.
Native lands are death camps of a most analgesic, deceptive nature. They promise an easier life to lure you in. You can’t argue against the perks of a familiar/family/friendly environment – you’d be deemed mad, or unhinged – even though arguments are what native lands seem to be made of. Gossip, overfamiliarity, jealousy, betrayed trust. Repetitive unnecessary conflict. A smooth ride that somehow, on a whim, turns into an uphill struggle. The need to reinvent the wheel on every occasion, even as everything has been laid out and agreed upon and dealt with, time and again. The friction never ceases, grinding hardest where you least expect it, taking you by surprise, wearing you down, out, one encounter at a time.
The sadomasochism is unmistakeable and ironic. Native lands are in essence playgrounds that afford one the privilege to feel content as the grindstone does a number on one’s spirit – to erode, and be eroded by, those who know you best.
Native lands are deserts for the soul of the person who seeks something other than what’s been sucked dry.