Immigrant

Three women from a southeast Asian country (not positive which one... China maybe?) came into the shop this afternoon. After much consultation and mutual prodding, two bought lovely boxes of wonderful items. They were happy, I was happy. As we were finalizing the sale, one of them asked – where are you from?

I told her, but I looked puzzled. Their English was not perfect. Most non-native speakers cannot tell that I have a slight accent. Oftentimes, I cannot tell that I have a slight accent.

She noted my quizzical expression and said – you have a most melodic voice! Up and down! Most people here speak in a flat tone.

I didn’t tell her this, but she was, in reality, paying a compliment to herself. I have this trait (my daughters first alerted me to it): I pick up the speech patterns of my audience. If they are melodic, I, too, become melodic. If they have a Scottish clip, I will, within a sentence develop one in response. Right. A bit of one.

It cannot be helped. Most likely, I developed these strategies of coping when I first came here as an immigrant. I wanted to fit in. To become like you.


On this (beautiful and warm) morning, following the usual house cleaning, my occasional traveling companion and I set out for a quick hike through the Pheasant Branch Conservancy. We’d been there briefly yesterday. Today, we intended to walk the long loop. We had two hours. Enough to do it if we picked up a sprightly step.

Hiking with Ed is comfortable for a person like me – I don’t have to strain to sound like him. We both like quiet and we often hike without words. When he does tell a story, it is animated in ways that are so specific to his culture and background that I don't try to merge with his pattern.


We hike in this sprawling park that borders the creek and even though the prairie grasses are dry and the oak trees look like they may never sprout a a bud again , it is a very beautiful morning.




















We pass by the creek and we pause. Do you see those gurgles? These are artisan springs, pushing water from maybe underneath this hill, or maybe Michigan. Or Canada.





Immigrant waters! Welcome, waters. You’re among friends now. Most of the time!