When I decided to leave Atlanta, after spending a year immersing myself in the Caribbean life of Atlanta, and move out West, I was more than happy to get out of there. As much fun as I had in Atlanta, I felt that living there one more year would not have been good for me. After living in New York City for 8 years, Atlanta was like a breath of fresh air. Though I mainly came down there to do research for my dissertation project, I saw Atlanta as a place to start over and experience new things. When I left New York, it felt like the right time to go because more and more I was feeling as if the city was sucking the life out of me. The winters were too cold. The cost of living was too high. The city was getting dirtier and dirtier (i.e., the return of bed bugs to NYC...ewww!!!). And, on top of it all, several of my closest friends had left, or were getting ready to leave, the city.
As for Atlanta, though I enjoyed several perks of living there (i.e., lower cost of living, better housing, warmer climate, tons of black people), I eventually came to see the city as a place where my heart was continuously ripped out of my chest, like a scene from a gory horror flick. When the opportunity to spend a year writing at UC-Santa Barbara arose, it sounded like exactly what i needed---a change. It felt like God wanted me to go someplace to forget my hurts (and the him) and get back to me. So, I packed up my stuff, sold my furniture, jumped in my car, and left Atlanta in my rearview mirror. Or so I thought.
I arrived in Santa Barbara, California last August and I unexpectedly had the urge to turn around and head back to Atlanta. Something was just off about California. At first, I thought it was the change in time zones. But, after a week, I got used to being 3 hours behind most of my friends and family. Then I thought it was the change in population, namely going from Atlanta, a city with a large black population, to Santa Barbara, a city that has, what seems like, 20 black people living there. But, being one of a handful of black folk didn't bother me (much). I had plenty of experience of that in grade school, high school, college, and graduate school. For months I couldn't figure out what was bothering me about my new life in California. Then a few weeks ago, it hit me. What I was experiencing was culture shock.
Oxford dictionary defines "culture shock" as the feeling of disorientation experienced by someone who is suddenly subjected to an unfamiliar culture, way of life, or set of attitudes. Until late August, I had always lived in a city with a significant Caribbean population (at least more than 50,000 living in the metro area). My move to California forced to me to realize how important my culture was to me. I miss the food, the people, the music, the accents, and the sense of community and family that I have always felt from growing up in a Caribbean community in Boston. I just haven't had that feeling in California. As loud as I play my soca, reggae, and calypso music (and dance to it) in my apartment, it does not compare to whining it up in a reggae club among my fellow Caribbean folk. To be able to do that here, I would have to drive 2 hours to LA. With the price of gas out here, it wouldn't be worth the drive unless it was dolla-rama/bashment party. And, I haven't heard about anything like that happening in LA, or in California. Because of my culture shock, California still doesn't feel like home.
Honestly, I miss Atlanta and the Caribbean community I found there. From time to time, I think about moving back there. And, now that I have been away from it, and experienced a new culture and a new way of life, I believe that I might find myself back in (Caribbean) Atlanta someday soon.
One Love
