I thought that I was born a nomad when I was young, but I didn’t know the
meaning of the word. We moved all over the country, for various reasons,
usually involving one of my parents getting a better job opportunity, but
also sometimes because they needed a change of pace. They eventually grew
weary of the grind, and decided that we would live simpler lives. There were
six of us kids by then, and a seventh would come later. The two eldest got
jobs to help support the family, but none of it was what you might call
skilled labor. This was done on purpose, so as to untether us from any one
place. We continued to move around, but if anyone in the family—including
the youngest kids—asked to move somewhere else, we would. Well, you had to
perform a presentation, and plead your case, but this was only shot down
twice, and once because there were conflicting requests that just so
happened to occur at the same time. I was the middle kid, and had plenty of
chances to prompt one of our infamous moves, but I never chose to do so. It
didn’t matter to me where we lived, as long as everyone else was happy.
Being the one to ask for it just didn’t make any sense for someone who
didn’t care either way. I fell in love with the life. I liked meeting people
all over the continent, trying new things, and learning new languages. We
even went to the U.S. once, but I’m sorry to say nobody liked it, so we
returned to Europe after a few months. We spent all of our money on those
two trips, but we all appreciated gaining the experience. When I came of
age, I was expected to get a job of my own, so I could share in the burden.
I did, but then I grew tired of it. I loved my family, but I didn’t
want to work. I wanted to keep moving.
My parents and siblings could see that I was unhappy. Some people in this
world are just not cut out for work. I was certainly not raised to recognize
its inherent value. We only did it because we had to...at least that’s what
we thought. They released me from my unwritten contract so I could go
explore the world on my own. I went farther than we ever did, to parts of
Africa and Asia, and back to the Americas once or twice. I was homeless, but
I was happy. You would be surprised what you can do without any money
whatsoever, as long as you have no qualms about wild berries and dumpster
diving. I kept in touch as best I could in those days, and returned home
after two years. I regaled my family with stories of my journey, teaching
them a few tricks I picked up along the way. They found themselves to be
envious of the true nomadic lifestyle, especially my two younger brothers,
who both had jobs of their own now. They too hated it. Only the littlest
girl was too young to know what it was like yet, but she didn’t seem very
interested in trying. So everyone quit their jobs, and followed me. With my
guidance, they figured out how to live with no borders, no constraints. It
was so freeing, and I thought I was happy before, but now I was
really happy. As technology progressed, it became easier to stay in contact with
people, and we discovered that we weren’t the only ones living like this. As
nomads, we were obviously very separated from each other, but we still
considered ourselves to be part of a community. It is through it that I met
my future husband. I can’t believe I found someone who saw the world just as
I did. We settled down for a little while so our kids could grow up with a
little bit more stability, but when they were old enough to start making
their own decisions, they decided they wanted to join our old community. So
we went back to being nomads. It’s only natural.
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