Where Do I Belong?

Where do I belong? A question of many facets. First, the literal. Where I belong these days is in my home or outdoors wearing a mask and at least six feet away from everyone else.

This question is usually asking, with whom do I belong. Where do I fit in? With whom do I have something in common? Who are the people I care for? Who are the people who care for me?

Whom did I find while engaging in common interests? Who came together with me around a common identity? Who continue to get together because we like each other, and because our get-togethers get us out of our homes and into the presence of other human beings?

Do I belong in the synagogue where I’m a dues-paying member but hardly ever attend services and no longer work in any committee? I have synagogue friends from 30 years ago, but haven’t more than greeted in passing for the last decade.

Where else might I belong? On this planet? In my skin? At the places on the internet frequented by like-minded people?

Turning it around, who belongs with me? For whom do I make a welcoming space? To whom do I give the benefit of the doubt?

So many questions and even more answers, because every moment is different and my mood varies along with my self-esteem and my willingness to even conceive of myself as belonging on this planet at all. But the relationship between self-esteem and belonging is circular: I need to feel vaguely good about myself to foist my presence on anyone else, but if I haven’t spent time interacting with anyone else I start to wonder if I actually exist.

To accept and justify the gift of my existence, I feel the need to be doing something to improve others’ lives. I take the most responsibility for my friends and other members of the intersecting communities to which I belong: lesbians, seniors, writers, liberals, San Franciscans, etc.

Anyway, in this time of sheltering in place, one of the most helpful things I can do for myself and others is to reach out and have conversations with my friends. To recognize the other as a person worthy of being listened to, to share my similar feelings and affirm that we’re both human. When I’m down, I can share that with someone who is also down and be comforted by our common humanity. Or I can share with someone who is less down, and maybe begin to hope that a better mood might come around to me in due course.

And I remind myself to listen to friends who call me or share in a Zoomed meeting, not just to reassure us of our common humanity, but also to notice any particular need that I can help with.

Dana Vinicoff