Hosea's island

"There is a bittersweet loneliness in the life of an exile that exerts a romantic appeal to many people. They see themselves as a mysterious figure on a Mediterranean island, seen by all, known to few, living a life of intense privacy in full view. The problem with such a life is that it cannot sustain trust; the very essence of exile is the belief that one can only really count on oneself."*

Was Roger Ebert writing about me? He might have been. I'm not sure how "romantic" my life is (and of course I don't live on a Mediterranean island) but the rest of it fits: intense privacy, known to few. And a lack of trust, for sure.

But "exile"? Maybe, in a sense. When I was very little, my parents were graduate students and they rented houses from professors on sabbatical. That meant we moved every year. Then my dad got a teaching job clear across the country (so we moved) … which he hated (so he looked for another job right away and we moved again). When I was a few months shy of my sixth birthday, we moved abroad, to another country. There I met a girlfriend (but then we moved) … and then finally we landed in a house where we stayed for five years. A neighborhood where I could ride my bicycle for hours and learn all the streets. A place where I could begin to put down roots. Not that I was ever fully rooted there—already I kept to myself the knowledge that we were Americans, because Americans weren't always popular in this new country. Also my parents sometimes smoked pot, which in those days was illegal both in that country and back home. So I had to be careful how much I told my friends about my family. I had to draw lines, and compartmentalize my world. But on the whole I felt like I belonged there.

Nothing ever lasts. When I was a few months shy of my twelfth birthday we moved back to the United States. At the time I believed the move was only temporary: I no longer remember if my parents said that explicitly, or if I just chose to believe it. But this time they bought a house, instead of just renting it. It's the same house Mother still lives in today. So no, the move wasn't temporary.

So it was another exile. Another layer. And then my eccentric interests and bookishness added more layers on top of that. You've heard all this before. (I realized after starting this post that I've said it all before here and here. Maybe elsewhere too, but those will do for a start.)   

But I did want to capture that quote from Roger Ebert.

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* From Roger Ebert's review of "Pascali's Island," August 12, 1988, reprinted on RegerEbert.com.