I'm trying to clean out files on my computer and found a letter I composed to London (yes, to London) on May 20, 2010, ie before I had this blog. Can you tell I was going crazy with the stress of a lack of money/job? Enjoy.
Dear London,
Wtf? I don’t get it. I thought we had an understanding when
I moved here for you that this had long term potential. I’ve given the last 20
months of my life to you and am not ready to turn my back on that. Are you
willing to watch me walk away? For the first time in a long time I can see
myself staying with you and being content. I think I could build a life with
you and eventually look back on my youth in America with the type of affection
that only comes with distance. I would say things like, “Well, yes, I was
raised in the US, but England will
always be home.” I would still go back to visit, but I would always come back-
back home - to you.
We could be so good
together! How can you not see that? And I’m willing to make
sacrifices for you. I’ve put so much effort into learning about your culture.
My knowledge of your slang is fairly impressive for an American, I’m beginning
to be able to pick out regional accents – heck, I even understood most of
“Billy Elliot” when I saw it (for the second time) at the Victoria Palace
Theatre the other night. I learned about your system of government in order to
follow the recent election. I watched all of the debates and was so envious of
people who were allowed to vote. If you’d just let me stay a bit longer, that
could be me someday! I continue to be impressed by your public transport
system, while native Londoners slag you off (<-- see that use of
slang?). I stand by you, despite the fact that you are unreliable, hot, and
often broken. But I make up excuses for you: you’re old (oldest in the world,
in fact!), not built for this many people. Because I believe in you and I rely
on you to get me to work every day.
Which brings me to my next point. I ask very little from
you. I love you despite the fact that no one can just pick a side of the
sidewalk and stick with it, that no one gives up their seat on the tube to the
elderly, disabled, or pregnant, or that you have no original national holidays.
All I ask from you is to give me a chance at a real job. Not my dream job, not
even a good job, but one that is hopefully somewhat, even if vaguely, related
to my intended career path. I don’t even need to make a lot of money, but I do
have some financial minimums to meet: I want to be able to buy clothes when I want
(not lots or expensive ones, but I shouldn’t have to save over the course of 4
paychecks to buy new socks and underwear) and I want to be able to travel. Yes,
travel. I know that’s not a necessity, but it’s my one luxury. I don’t think
that’s asking too much, do you?
If you don’t think you can do that for me, I would prefer
you just come out and tell me rather than string me along like this. Every time
I’m ready to be rid of you, you tell me it’s going to be different from now on
and get my hopes up with a potential job opportunity. And as soon as my hopes
are highest you dash them. Again and again and again. I hope you recognize your
behaviour for what it is: abusive. Someday you’ll wake up and I’ll be gone. And
you’ll find the bill for my Tier 1 post-study work visa on the kitchen table.
So think long and hard, London. Because sometimes you don’t know what
you’ve got till it’s gone.
-Me
