That’s what Zephyr means… no one can tell me (not even the omniscient Google) what Zephyrin means. It’s my married name, my maiden name being something about topsoil… I prefer the wind.

Like you all, there is no place I call home besides the place I laid my head last night (which has often been in between vending machines in airports). I know I have a Canadian citizenship and a Canadian passport, and when I got a life-threatening infection recently, I called Canada home real quick (although US customs almost didn’t let me through, I looked so bad). But I’ve also had visas to Venezuela and a residency in Dominican Republic… and I lived in Haiti for a few years (the computer systems didn’t work when I was boarding, so I didn’t need a visa). I also had a student visa at one point for the States–where I was forced to live with people who had never left their town of birth. I nearly went crazy.

I’ve moved over 30 times in my life (I’ll let you know when I reach 30…. keep waiting….), and I do get that little ‘moving virus’ every year and a half, two years. Someday I may conquer it, but seeing as dirt is stationary and wind is not, I don’t have the feeling I’ll be stationary for very long–I hardly stayed in one place back when I was just dirt.

Like lots of you, I have huge problems communicating with people… the people I find it hardest to communicate with are those close to me, especially my parents. I find that with a complete stranger, I can rattle off my experiences without any thought to their rapidly changing view of me, and without feeling that I have to pick up their jaws off the floor, clean their ears and wave my hand in front of their face, waiting for them to come back. I also don’t have to then make their lives sound interesting to me (who wants to live in the same town for 90 years and the most exciting thing that happened in their life was something that happened to someone they knew…. ten years ago??).

With strangers, or not-so-close acquaintances, I don’t have to pretend that I’m a normal North American and sit at large gatherings and pretend to be amused and excited by the ‘huge’ spider that came rushing out of the laundry today or Johnny’s first legible English word (babies speak a million languages before they speak English). I don’t have to pretend to like turkey and mashed potatoes, and I don’t have to notice the new Gucci bag or the million dollar house (or ring).

But with family and close friends, it’s all different. A few of my family members were at another family’s house for dinner two days ago…. I’m sitting there with two pairs of black sweats on, two sets of wool socks, several shirts and my winter jacket with the hood pulled up. They’re lucky I remembered it was Canada and took my shoes off at the front door. My dad says to our hosts (whom I’ve never met), as if explaining some great mystery, “This is Kayla. She’s from Haiti.” Thanks Dad.

I’ve never told my family most of the things I’ve seen and experienced, or explained to them the places I’ve been and the people I’ve come across–half because they don’t ask, and half because it would scare the sh** out of them. They’ve already refused to visit me wherever I am, and that was without hearing any stories from me–that was just from the news. I tried to tell Mom that Haiti’s a lot safer than it used to be–she laughed. They watch the news, and I leave it at that–if they really want to know, they’ll ask, and if they really want to see, they’ll visit me.

Someone asked me last year how Venezuela was. We moved from Venezuela in 2000. I’ve never been back. I said Venezuela was good, although Chavez looks too much like Hitler and a whole missions organization got kicked out of the tribal areas on charges of spy-work and propoganda-teaching. It helps to keep up-to-date. A close friend wrote me the other day saying that the only way she knows where I am is by my facebook wall.

I don’t know how to miss people. It’s horrible. Admitting that you have a problem… something like that. I’m afraid this one’s permanent unless wind ever finds a resting place and doesn’t move for a few decades. I don’t know what ‘three healthy meals a day’ means. A shopping mall turns me into a caged introvert–I come, I finish, I leave. I get confused when I am in the ethnic majority and everyone’s speaking English. I spoke Spanish, French, and Creole to ER nurses before finally aclimatizing to the fact that I was in Canada and they were going to put me in the psych ward if I didn’t clue in. I say one sentence and it has several different languages in it–some of which I’ve never studied. I get mad at the news for facts they get wrong, and notice all the typos and grammar mistakes in foreign correspondence.

But do I have a piece of paper that says I’m special? Nope. I’m the weird kind of special that people say hi to and then walk away saying, “She’s got some crazy stories,” none of which they’ve heard themselves. The kind that can’t be understood over a cup of coffee… or by someone who’s only watched documentaries or the news channels. Sometimes it better to hang out with four-year-olds… they don’t know about ackward pauses and cultural stigmas.

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