Bicycle ride

I learned to ride a bicycle in my mid twenties. Which incidentally is the perfect age to let your fear of gravity, bruises and pain attempt to destroy what would otherwise a perfectly fun and enjoyable experience. I highly recommend it! I spent the most frustrating and emotional three hours of my life falling off and getting back on that stupid bicycle. Again, I highly recommend it! (Sarcasm is really hard to translate in writing, but I think in this case, it is quite self evident...)

To this day,  I am still not sure what made me get back on that instrument of torture, a week later, after I had all but given up on my hopes of riding around town on two wheels. Was it pride, stubbornness, sheer determination? Who knows? All I know is that a week later, after the bruises, tears and cuts, I was ready to get back on. I absolutely despise the expression: "It is like riding a bike"; I cringe every time I hear it!

I am here to tell you that riding a bike IS hard! (for some people...OK...mostly me). Years later, I still have to work very hard at balancing my unwilling body on my bicycle anytime I head out. I ride around in a circle for a couple of minutes to make sure I remember that the ground is NOT my friend, unlike the brakes. Once I feel confident/secure enough to finally take off, I quickly look around and pretend that I was just watching out for cars, or waiting for friends while staring angrily at my watch.

Whatever works, right?

eed

Home: where my heart is.

I was born in Lomé, raised in Dakar, grew up too fast in Paris, and became an adult in Dayton (what's adulthood, really?!? This is for another post..).

I built my version of a home here in Dayton. I am not quite sure how it happened. One day, I was trying to escape, the next I fell in love with the Gem City. When I share this with people, almost every single time, I get this question:

"Oh, so are you married with children?".

And I really, REALLY want to say:

"No. Do I have to have those things to call a place a home?"....

Every time I talk about Dayton being my home, I get the following question: "WHY Dayton?". I am afraid I don't have a clear explanation. I guess the heart loves what the heart loves. Or maybe, I have a more fluid version of what home is...

A few years ago, I stumbled upon the term: a third culture kid (also called a global nomad) and it finally ALL made sense.

"A Third Culture Kid (TCK) is a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside the parents' culture. The TCK frequently builds relationships to all of the cultures, while not having full ownership in any. Although elements from each culture may be assimilated into the TCK's life experience, the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar background."

-David C Pollock

When I read this definition for the first time...it finally all made sense. My sense of belonging was not tied to where I was born, grew up, went to school,  or anything like that...it was and still is tied to the people in my life. The people who matter to me live here, so that's where my heart will be... at least for a little while.

eed

Meanwhile in Dayton...