I don't even know what this trigger is, but I feel compelled to write something anyways. In another life I could've been royalty of some kind. My father recently told me that my grandfather was once married to the sister-in-law of the president of our native country. At their(more) wedding, my dad-being young and brash- almost got into a brawl with some bodyguards, but was stopped by the president on the grounds that he was family. And no one ever touches the president's family.
The marriage never worked out. And the president was since forgotten, by my father and the country, after the end of his term. We moved to America and we don't speak with our accents in public. And my father spends his mornings with a rusty set of weights in a poor attempt to regain some of the muscle from his glory days.
I don't know the Guyanese national anthem, but I've sang the USA's at least a thousand times during my elementary days. I can sit here and remember the cherry trees and the gardens full of flowers and clothes hanging on a line. I can recall the salty air I tasted by the sea wall, watching ships pass by from my mother's lap. I can picture the bronzed statue of a short, angry man towering over the town with his fist in the air. But I couldn't tell you if the middle school next to my old house still exists. I couldn't tell you if the backyard is still littered with tamarinds. I couldn't even tell you if my old library room is there, full of dusty children's books and a white rocking horse. (less)