Of Two Wholes

I pulled out my suitcase from the closet the other day; it fills half the available floor space, a constant reminder of change to come. I haven't had the time to pack, but it lies there, awaiting my attention, my realizing that mere hours remain before the plane leaves and my backdrop changes completely.

So many years passed when these two continents were completely different worlds, where every trip between the two meant forgetting the other. So many years passed where the same could be said for me. I would spend my time in one country, and there would be a whole other person lying in wait in the other, as though she didn't fit the mold, as though she weren't allowed through customs. Every time I moved, be it east or west, I had to leave half of myself behind. I had to let her die, so that the other half could survive the journey.

Next week it will be 17 years since I first moved to America, to the land of the Great Dream and limitless possibilities. This was the country where I blossomed, but also where my clean slate erased my history. Where I learned quickly to erase any trace of an accent, where I assimilated, but also where I, for the first time, felt like my being different was an asset, not a burden. Next week it will be 17 years, and the incessant back-and-forths that followed have softened my dividing line. I allow American me to bounce around Sweden; I allow Swedish me to nuance the blacks and whites of my American self. I force myself to merge the two. I remind myself to pack them both.

I walked up ninth avenue this morning, and it felt like September. Such a cool breeze, such a sweet scent in the air. I took a deep breath, soaking up America so I could bring it with me on my trip. I'll be back soon, I said, but perhaps it's been 17 years since I was ever, really, gone.