Sometimes, When You Live Too Long In The Diaspora, You Lose Your Humanity

How big is your tribe?

Seriously... do you even know the names of five of your closest neighbors?

Yet you wave at them every day like you do.
"Hi, neighbor!"

I was watching this video on YouTube the other day, and it lined up exactly with a conversation I had recently with someone I met.

We were talking about life in the diaspora -- all the obvious stuff: opportunity, technology, the culture, the convenience. But the video went deeper. It asked a question I've been thinking about ever since:

The man in the video said something that hit me hard.

In America, people smile at you, ask "how you doing," hold the door open... but they don't know you, and they honestly don't care to know you.

There's no real connection. Because in this system, everything is built around the individual.

Where I come from -- Haiti -- it's not like that.
We come from a culture of family and community.

In Haiti there is the culture of "Lakou Lakay" and "Konbit". You really have to experience it to understand that it truly means.

In America, "family" means Mom, Dad, and the kids.
Back home, family means your auntie, your cousins, your in-laws, your godparents, your neighbor who knew your grandmother, and even the guy down the road whose great-grandmother married your great-granddaddy's third cousin. Still family.

We're woven together. Tied into one another's lives.

"You're in My Space"

Another thing that stood out was when he talked about space.

In America, everybody's trained to protect their personal bubble. If you get too close, it's like you broke a social law.

People shift, step back, or look uncomfortable -- like you just invaded their privacy without saying a word.

But where I grew up, we were always close.
Close in cars. Close at parties. Close at home.

Maybe that's why when I get into a Toyota corolla taxi cab in the Dominican Republic with 5 other passengers and the "chofer", I don't feel any discomfort. Except the fact that it's freaking tight in there!

I remember visiting my auntie in the countryside in Haiti. Two rooms. Maybe 12 of us sleeping there at night. I don't know how we all fit, but we did. We slept. We laughed. We woke up. And somehow, it was enough.

In America, everyone has a room. Their own bed. Their own space. Which is nice, don't get me wrong -- but it comes at a cost. You're paying for every square foot. You're paying to keep it warm in the winter, cool in the summer. And before you know it, you start believing you're supposed to be alone.

The Price of Becoming "Independent"

The more we adapt to this system, the more we change.

You go back home, and people feel... too close.
You don't trust like you used to.
You keep your distance -- even in small spaces.

You want everything bigger: your house, your bed, your car, your distance. Even if it costs you everything. Even if you can't afford it.

You forget what it means to share.
You forget how to be human.

Because when you grow up in a world where everyone had one -- one pair of shoes, one plate of food, one room to sleep in -- you learn how to live together.

You learn how to need each other.

And you carry that closeness like a badge.

But in the diaspora, the system trains you to believe you don't need anyone.

That if you just work hard enough, you can have it all -- by yourself.

So What Am I Trying to Say?

I'm trying to make sense of this.

I'm trying to remind myself that yes, opportunity is beautiful, and living abroad comes with many blessings -- but I don't want to lose the part of me that knows how to live with people.

That part of me that isn't afraid of closeness.

That part that knows how to be family.

That part that sees humanity before individual success.

Because I'm starting to believe... if you lose that part of yourself, you didn't make it -- you lost yourself on the way.

It's nice to have it all--but what's the point if you have no one to enjoy it with?

Yeah, yeah, yeah... "I have my wife... my husband... my children," you say.

But let's be real:
You're in the office, alone.
She's in the bedroom, scrolling TikTok, alone.
The kids are in their rooms, playing video games, alone.

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