Listen

by Kate (kate2130@yahoo.com)

Written in response to the Space Between project.

Can someone help me
I think that I'm
Lost here
Lost in a place
called
America

~*~

It's louder here.  At least, that's my standard answer when anyone asks me to compare this country and that from which I came.  It's louder.  A typical answer, I think; one that satisfies the notion of America being the land of excess, the country of gluttons, the nation of bigness, of loudness.  And of course, in a way, it's true.  Culture shock is an understatement if you want to describe what I felt that first morning, standing in the airport.  I literally got dizzy from the noise, from the press of people.  It took me a good week of sleepless nights before I got used to the sound of the El passing by the hotel.  So, yes, it's louder here.

But then I think about where I came from.  It was hardly quiet, with gunshots and bombs and sirens sounding constantly in the distance, with my children's whimpers keeping me awake at night.  And even before the war, the train ran close to our apartment, our upstairs neighbors played Italian operas loud enough for the entire building to hear, our dog barked constantly – much to the chagrin of Danijela.  So why, when I think of America, do I automatically think loud?

Perhaps because it is, I think, a different kind of noise here.  A hollow noise, one devoid of meaning.  It requires no thought, no input of my own.  I can spend days – weeks, even – hearing a sound and never have it register in my mind as having an origin, a meaning.  And yet, it is always there, this confusing, meaningless din.

Yes, this is the difference between Croatian and American noise – the meaning.  In Vukovar, there was the laughter of my children, the voice of a friend calling down the street, the bells on the church chiming the hour.  And there were the whispers of my wife, the most meaningful sound of all.  I would pause, sometimes, and just listen, for the sheer joy of hearing.

Here, I sometimes find that I have to stop my ears against the noise.  I am in danger of losing myself inside the sound, of becoming just as meaningless as the noise itself.  The sound swirls around me, consuming me, and I recognize none of it.

~*~

Somehow the knock on my door makes its way through the din in my mind and I recognize it as meaningful.  Or, at least, potentially important.  I rise slowly from the couch where I've been staring blankly at the man chattering incessantly on the TV screen.  More noise, as meaningless as the rest; more noise to become lost in.  I have not heard one thing he's said, and I don't notice that I've interrupted a sentence when I turn the TV off.  But I do hear the knock again.

She's standing in the doorway, gazing at me.  Asking if she can come in with no words, just her eyes.  I move aside slightly and she enters, touching my arm softly as she passes.

I close the door and turn towards her.  I say the first thing that comes to me, never mind if it doesn't make sense.  "I've been lost."

She takes a step forward, touching her forehead to my bowed one.  "I know," she whispers, her breath tickling my face.
I bring my hands to her hair, closing my eyes, and notice that it is quiet.  I can hear the two of us breathing, in time with each other.  I can hear the clock ticking and I'm fairly certain I can hear my heart beating – or is that hers?  My mind registers these sounds and attaches meaning.  And I pause and just listen, for the sheer joy of hearing.

When I can finally bring myself to break the silence, it's only to whisper.  "Maybe I'm not lost anymore."