When a pipe started leaking in the ceiling of our kitchen we were forced to relocate to a hotel downtown. Among the many worries when disaster struck included booking a hotel on short notice, ensuring our dogs were taken care of, and coordinating repairs with the property managers.
Unexpectedly cutting through the stresses of our temporary refugee status was the returning feeling of displacement I felt living in the city center. A feeling of unease and overstimulation that I struggled operating in for the duration. I last felt this way when I lived in Dallas for a summer, accompanying my husband to live in a 500 square foot apartment while he attended a summer internship. I can only describe it as a feeling of being afloat in unfamiliar waters, exchanging car-centric outskirts for a norm of multiple mile walks, the constant noise and smells that overwhelm the senses, the bustle and crowd of sharing a space with so many. It’s a disconcerting element to be thrust into from comparatively quieter living.
The experience once again has my mind drifting to thoughts of what many must experience when immigrating, forcefully displaced from the only environment they’ve ever known in a quest for safety, knowingly carrying the aura of someone who does not know the implied rules of their new home and served as a heavy reminder to be kind to those around me, especially those who don’t quite fit in.