An American Abroad: Anger When I’m Home, Guilt When I’m Away

As I sit in a café in Seoul, South Korea, an American abroad, I scroll through news articles about recent Supreme Court decisions, actions the government is taking against immigrant children, protests at the capitol building. I see videos of racist rants and police killings. I hear talk about the inevitability of Roe v. Wade being overturned and watch the Secretary of State proclaim “human rights are given by God, not government” as he announces the US is pulling out of the UN Human Rights Council. I see crowds of people cheering trump.

Every time this stuff appears before my eyes, my heart starts pounding, I get tense, shake my head, and get angry, sad and confused all at the same time. I don’t want to go back, but I feel guilty being away.

I left America for Korea in August 2017. Before coming to Korea I was involved and knowledgeable about politics and government. I have a bachelor’s in Law & Society, minoring in Global Peace and Security, and got my Masters in Public Policy and Administration. I worked in local government. I lived in Sacramento, the California capitol city where I was surrounded by policy-minded people. I’ve even been told by a handful of people that I should run for office.

I went to Washington D.C. for the Women’s March and walked with my fellow Californians to protest trump and police abuse. I waved my fist and shouted at the top of my lungs “this is what democracy looks like” and “no justice, no peace, no racist police.”  I was emotionally heart-broken, dismayed, disgusted, angry. I could not understand what had become of this country. And I felt like I had to be out doing something about it.

But it didn’t last. It seemed like nothing was changing, only getting worse, and I didn’t have the endurance to withstand the negativity and fight that it would take. I’m sensitive. Logical, but extremely sensitive to cruelty, to whatever the opposite of compassion and empathy is. What I was seeing happen to the country I called home for the previous 34 years was too much for me to take. So I removed myself from it. I found another place to call home.

You could say I was running away, but it really isn’t that black and white. I’m a traveler, and I was bound to live in another country again (I had done it 2 times before, in better political environments). Even with the first female president, I would have still gone and spent a year in Korea, or Thailand, Peru or Morocco. But the difference this time is, I don’t want to go back. I have no connection, I am so disconnected to this place called America.

But at the same time, I feel guilty for not being there and fighting. I think about it every day. It’s almost like growing up in an abusive family and you’re the older sibling. You get out when you turn 18, but your younger sister is still there. You’ve escaped physically, because you had to for your own health and safety, but mentally you have a lingering guilt that you could have done more for the people still suffering. I wish I could take people out of that abusive house that is America right now, and place them in the warm and loving arms of a better country, a more compassionate society and system of government. But I can’t.

In the movement today, there’s a lot of talk about taking care of yourself – self-care – not getting so wrapped up and fall down the rabbit hole of depressing news stories and actions that are going on constantly nowadays.

But what if self-care means totally separating yourself from it. Removing yourself form the environment that makes you incredibly sad and heart poundingly angry on a regular basis.

I am practicing a form of self-care. Maybe the most selfish type – totally removing myself. I’m protecting myself because I don’t think I have the strength, energy and emotional will to put myself through it. Through the constant battle of trying to right a massively wrong system, the struggle to calmly try to explain to people why they should have a basic sense of human compassion. To fight, to resist, to feel like you’re pushing up against a mountain, chiseling your way through with only a nail file while there’s people on the other side with bulldozers, proclaiming “god” is on their side, and $70 billion dollars to buy public opinion.

I just can’t bring myself to do it. So off I go, home for a bit, but then off to the next place. Because I can’t do it. And really, I won’t do it, because I know how I will respond. It affects me emotionally and physically. Constantly. But I can never escape the guilt, the call that I need to be doing something. I need to fight, I need to resist. The more I stay abroad, the less attached I will feel to that country, and the less guilt I’ll have for not coming back. But I’m not sure what’s worse.