passage birds
On small towns, big dreams and a fleeing generation.
Once upon a time there was a migrant generation. And I do not mean my grandmother’s, who moved from her village of 40 inhabitants to the capital of the region back in 1940 with that mix of fear and hope that a new life always brings. I am referring to today’s youth, in perpetual search of new experiences, those that always seem to exist anywhere but here.
I do not speak of this reality from the margins; I too have been part of “those who leave,” actively contributing to the ever-growing percentage of people between the ages of 18 and 30 who abandon their hometowns not out of necessity, but driven by a tacit, generalised claustrophobia. Perhaps there is an age at which either our hometown shrinks or our aspirations expand, for suddenly “home feels too small” and we are flooded with the urge to flee, to change, to grow. Our maladies our such that everything about the place we grew up in begins to feel constrictive, bothersome, measly, barren, and the only solution must certainly be to run away. There is nothing left for us here, we think; our future is there, wherever “there” may be.
So I board a plane and in that moment I too become a bird, leaving my parents behind with a prematurely emptied nest, in search of growth and personal development that someone, somewhere, has decided can only be found in the continent’s major capitals. But as Simon & Garfunkel warned: “And each town looks the same to me / The movies and the factories / And every stranger's face I see / Reminds me that I long to be / Homeward bound”. The idealised image of success, of the fulfilled dream and unparalleled opportunities, is often little more than a shop window. Soon, illusion and ambition are replaced by confusion, disorientation, fatigue, disappointment, señaldá1.
That town I longed to escape cannot be the cause of my dissatisfaction, for dissatisfaction is something we carry in our suitcase when we convince ourselves that the best is “out there” and forget to pay attention to what is “in here.”
Once upon a time there was a generation that had to leave their home, leave their family, only to realize how fortunate they were to have one. Once upon a time there was a bird that returned to its nest.
señaldá is a word from my small region’s local language, Asturian, which primarily denotes nostalgia, melancholy, longing, or sadness, especially the type of heartfelt feeling when separated from one’s roots, familiar faces, or past experiences. There is not a better word that summarises this piece.
as the one who always leaves: 🥲
so like…matilda by harry styles??