Friday, the last day my sister-cousin was visiting. We wandered over to my favorite coffee shop and as I thought these thoughts I turned to see her sitting on the bar stool by the windows, my son perched next to her— and my heart caught in my throat. It hit me with full force, as much as I want it, as long as I live here, I may never have the inclusive enclave I’ve longed for but I will have this community– his enclave– these people those lovely pockets of people who truly love him. Pakistani, Indian, Muslim, Christian, Orthodox, Jewish, Gay, Lovely, Funny, Kind and wonderful people who may not be a collective enclave, but if one must have pockets of friends and family, how can one complain when ones pockets are bursting at the seams with gold?
I long to find a sincere enclave of people. Not necessarily like-minded. Or same-faith. Or with children. Or without. Just a sincere community of people with whom to associate with and within which to raise my child. While others have found it the search for me proves elusive. Sure there are pockets of gold, lovely people I’m lucky to know who love my son and show him kindness I don’t take for granted and who I consider my dear friends– but the community? The enclave– is missing in a way I somehow feel is not missing for others. I want to try to seek it out and yet I can’t force myself to when I feel uncomfortable or unwanted. High school is long over. Trying to fit into cliques, emotionally drains me. And yet, it makes me sad that while I have friends to fill my weekends with and to listen when I need to talk, on the greater scheme of group community, I’m lacking. I worry what it means for my son.