Yesterday I was standing in Walmart waiting for an employee to open one of the locked cases. I was tired. The catering event I ran earlier that morning was brutal and the day was already approaching its 90th hour. So I was happy to get a call from my husband; Phil always cheers me up. He wanted me to pick up a spoon and asked what I was buying.
I never imagined the conversation that would follow. He was kind but lovingly pushed back when I said I was making an unnecessary purchase. Don't worry, he's not a monster; I'm usually the one questioning every pack of gum he buys. But here I heard stress in his voice. The concern about our finances snaked around each of his words and drew tighter. I spaced out a bit, watching outside of myself as I put the pregnancy test on a random shelf and walked away.
Turns out that stifling a panic attack would make you feel incredibly ill-at-ease. In fact, on my way to the catering event, when I was choking down my emotions and trying to take deep breaths, I wasn't helping. I was just making myself sick. I was hitting the gas while the gears were in neutral. I was drowning in a sickening wave of emotions I refused to face. Instead of the panic attack I knew was trying to burst through the surface, I screamed in my car for an hour and a half, heard only by espresso equipment, beans, and a few boxes of cups. That night I’d try to eat but find myself light headed and nauseated.
And when I was still nauseated almost 24 hours later, pregnancy seemed scary enough to be true.
I never imagined that I’d be looking at a two-pack pregnancy test, turning it over in my hands, then putting it back. When I moved to this country, I never imagined that I’d be in a place where I couldn’t afford the peace of mind of finding out if I was pregnant.
Phil was right, I was probably just feeling sick, it couldn’t be a baby. As of this writing, I still don’t know. But as much as I know that the pregnancy test would’ve been a waste of money, I’m sad I couldn’t spend $10 on something that wasn’t food or bills.
When I left Grenada, a couple of men were pursuing me. I don’t count this as a compliment. People pursue people. That’s life. But both men would ask me when I was leaving the US behind to return home. I’d dodged and weave and ignored their messages until they stopped asking. Of course they stopped asking. Why would you question someone who’s pursuing a better life for themselves?
They believed as much as I did, that I was going to live a good life in America.
I’m 11 years in, and earlier this week, my father sent me money to help us out.
As paradoxes go, my life feels filled with them right now. I have a home but yesterday I couldn’t buy a pregnancy test. I’ve been used and mistreated at work. But my resume looks pretty great. I spent four years experiencing micro aggression after macro aggression while working for a church. But I’ve found peace in Jesus like I could’ve never imagined.
I’m 11 years in, and I can’t sit still for fear of spiraling. I thought things would be better, walking down long office hallways with smart things in my brain. But I didn't realize that smart career girls are actually just applying for jobs like crazy and don’t have time for panic headaches and crying.
It’s funny, I’ve heard the message for years that I should go back home—I’m happier there after all. I’d tell my friends here that there’s a reason I left. I came to America to escape a life of struggle. As beautiful as my home is, I was tired of working front desks and food service, frustrated at how much I sacrificed to excel in school only to work a job that doesn't require a degree.
I’m angry today because I escaped one struggle only to stare down the barrel of a gun, frozen in time. When my boss laid me off three weeks ago, the first thing I thought was that I’d rather be dead than have to face a shitty job market in America. I was scared at the prospect of losing this endless battle to survive another day, to feed myself and my family.
Beneath that was a realer thought: I’d rather be home, where I could be safe and well cared for. Where my father has a room for me and there’s great cheddar cheese in the fridge. There are chickens behind the house and plenty of eggs for baking. The water is nice and warm at midday and the ocean water is cool at sunrise. The irony of living in a developed nation where mothers return to work days after giving birth and the poor are trapped beneath a glass floor is pitiful. I’m not without hope. AND I’m tired of doing this year after year after year. I know this sounds dramatic, but for an island girl who has done a lot of maturing in the past decade, I can’t shake the feeling that death is better than this.
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