Finding Solace. I don’t have a home. Don’t misunderstand me; I am fortunate enough to have somewhere to rest my head every night, a place with electricity and running water. Many people, I’ve discovered, don’t even have that. I know that I am lucky. But whenever, in polite conversation, a colleague or acquaintance asks me where my home is, I pause for a few seconds. They mean, “Where are you from, originally?” or “Where did you grow up?”, which would be easy enough to answer. It’s that word – home – that stops me in my tracks. If you asked me where I grew up, I’d tell you Venezuela. But the Venezuela that I grew up in, the country filled with friends and family, has crumbled into dust. One by one, the people that I know and love have scattered into the distance to find new places to live. I was one of them. I made the decision, like my grandfather, to become a physician. I knew that if I wanted to fulfill this dream, I had to go outside of Venezuela’s borders. So I left, too. Newark, USA. Located on the East Coast. Every morning, as I walk to the bustling inner-city hospital where I am a resident, I see a hundred faces like mine. People who are new and curious about the city, people who are a million miles from the land they grew up on. Even within the walls of the hospital, I have discovered a rich array of cultural backgrounds when I talk to the staff. They are from India, China, the Philippines, South Korea, South Africa, South America. Yet we have all ended up in this one place, working together to make the world a better one, while an invisible string is tied between our hearts and the distant countries we once lived in, connecting us to our origins, and to each other. No matter how stressed or exhausted I am, I always choose to spend an extra minute to walk through the medical school on the way to the hospital. I did this yesterday morning, and this morning, and I can imagine that I will do it even when I am old and grey. Each time I look at the university logo, I feel a tug on that internal string. I represent the medical school, whenever I am in my white coat, but I also represent Venezuela. I have talked about this to several of the international residents and staff here at the hospital, and found that while they may not walk through the medical school every morning like me, they feel the same way. They choose to honor this feeling in other ways, each specific to their culture and personality. Each time I have a conversation like this, where I am able to learn a new snippet of information about a different culture, I feel myself get lighter. Several weeks ago, I asked one of the ultrasound technicians, Mrs. R, for her story.
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