How to be a nomad

A word about being a wanderer

From the Archives

Memories of a Black San Francisco, Pt. 1: Personal Great Migration: This story has taken a journey of it’s own from the original pitch. It’s just a personal narrative about being a kid in San Francisco, loss and how a pay phone changed the trajectory of my life.

Perspective: My wandering little heart

When I was a kid we moved around a lot. When I say a lot, I mean I went to 5 different elementary schools. I was so used to moving for a while that when we finally did settle into what would be my last home in San Francisco’ Bayview/Hunter’s Point that I rearranged my bedroom monthly until I finally went off to college.

Some decades later, I find myself moving a chair three inches to the left or rearranging the books collecting dust on the shelf every so often. I also think about how, as an adult, I frequently want to run away from home. It’s a weird thought to have but I had to sit with what I was really feeling.

I'm not rich by any means or stretch of the imagination. But I have a good idea that the simplest way to become rich is to live a rich life. That’s really what all this is for isn’t it? To believe that for once in your life that you'll be okay. Sipping on a cup of delusion to get to the next instance where you feel okay with exactly the moment that you’re standing in.

People with a restless spirit are a different group of people. There isn’t a deep attachment to detachment but there is the ability to see the world in pieces. Many of these pieces seem so far away but connect by thin threads of similarity.

We are also the reason that horror movies become lessons to not go out at night, not to look behind the door, or asking “Whose out there?” into a pitch black forest. Don’t be fooled into thinking only a certain type of person investigates “What's that sound?”.

That inquisitive nature gives the “normal” people something to worry about.

The words “be safe” are not unheard but rather become mantras and prayers for some small adventure in a car with a balding tire, a backpack full of books and the need to know what’s just 3 hours north of where I’m standing.

Isn’t this the life that people who want freedom journey for? Isn’t this what it means to “get free”?

This isn’t about leaving life behind. This is about carrying the weight of life in such a way that it’s no longer a burden.

I've been safe. My restless spirit still remembers to pack less than I need, toss away anything that doesn’t fit and is more than I want to carry. But the real question is how much do I have to fight for a life that I truly want?

I can only hope that my younger nieces, nephews and cousins are paying attention. I can only imagine that somewhere there’s a little girl who is growing up underloved, awkward and misunderstood looking for the best version of herself. She may find it in the arms of a strangers. But she is more likely to find it wandering into an Irish pub where the local people will be skeptical until she asks for a lager with a shot of Tallisman instead of a pint of Guinness.