i was thinking about it again today at work — not the work itself that's fine enough i suppose — but just the whole DAMN charade. my first year at this firm i worked so hard to disappear you know? to be invisible. this old place this old city the old money it all felt so foreign. so i stopped my mom from sending me those homemade lunches the ones wrapped in the fabric with the turmeric stains and the smell of cardamom that would cling to everything. told her i was too busy for a proper lunch i’d just grab a sandwich. it broke her heart i know it did. and i’d eat some pathetic dry thing at my desk pretending it was what i really wanted. and the accent the fucking accent. i practiced for hours in front of the mirror saying words over and over until my tongue felt like a stranger in my own mouth. 'partner' 'brief' 'client' — trying to smooth out the edges trying to sound like everyone else like i belonged. god it was exhausting. like i was performing a one-woman play every single day. one wrong syllable one slip and the whole thing would crumble. the fear of someone asking 'oh where are you from really?' like it was a trick question like i had a secret i was keeping. which i did i guess. the partners would talk about their summers in cornwall or their grouse hunting trips and i'd just nod along pretending i understood. pretending i cared. all i ever wanted was to get through the day without anyone noticing the difference. without anyone seeing the parts of me that were 'other'. it feels so stupid now looking back. like why the HELL did i care so much about what those stuffy old farts thought? but at the time it felt like my entire future depended on it. like if i wasn't them i was nothing. and now here i am in my seventies still thinking about it. still feeling a pang of something when i hear someone speak with an accent like mine. it’s a weird mix of longing and relief that it isn't me anymore. like i escaped something but lost something too. my grandchildren are learning my language now which is nice but it’s not the same is it? not like how i grew up. i just wish i had had the balls to be myself back then. or maybe i just wish i hadn't had to make that choice at all. maybe i’m just tired. it’s 2am for christ’s sake. the other day i saw one of the younger associates eating something that smelled incredible in the breakroom. like actual food. and i thought 'good for them'. but then i also thought 'it's easier now isn't it?' or maybe they're just braver. i don't know. i really don't. i just remember the feeling of shame the hot flush of it when someone would look at my lunch box too long. god that was a long time ago. but it feels like yesterday sometimes. i’m trying to study for this history exam and my brain keeps drifting back to it. to the taste of that bland sandwich. to the sound of my own fake voice. to the way i felt like i was living someone else's life. and for what? a few decades of a decent career? was it worth it? i don't know the answer to that. maybe there isn't one. i just needed to say it out loud i guess. or type it out. whatever.