Colonialist

I seem to have wasted valuable time questioning myself, going through the unoriginal mid -(I’m not giving in quite yet to the word “late”…wait until July) 20s vicious cycle of who am I and who do I want to be, and after visiting Gran and Grandpa it came to me. Forget all those classes about the destruction of cultures and ecology by those dastardly British conquering the world, I am who I am, and the only thing a girl with a grandmother born in British Guiana can be…I’m a colonialist.

Now there’s no way I want England to take control of China and a few other small countries, or any way I want to excuse years of chaos caused by ruling thousands of folks who’d managed to rule themselves quite well for centuries before we brought “order” to them, but the colonialist mentality sure explains a lot.

I don’t need to choose between wanting to travel the word in search of adventure with being perfectly content staying at home to try out a new recipe. For generations family members have set off to live, work, and travel through exotic lands, and have still made it home in time for tea or pre-dinner drinks. After all, what’s a dinner party without a story or two about encounters with a lion or plans for the next adventure?

So I gladly surrender myself to my family’s past, it is genetics and who can argue with science? (Ok, point taken, science it practically all about debate but that’s beside the point.) The next time I sit on the banks of the Chobe, or start filling my notebook with family recipes, or spend the morning learning some bizarre new international dance I’ve taken a fancy to before having friends over for dinner I won’t need to justify it to myself or feel like I need to focus on one over the other. I am who I am, and this is who I want to be (for now).