Dear Belize

Belize, can I admit something to you? Sometimes I don’t like you; sometimes you piss me off and make me want to cry. Do you know that you make me feel inadequate and inferior? Sometimes you leave me feeling helpless, Belize. Sometimes I want to hold you so tight and protect you, but I know you’re too big for me to hold. You’re holding me, aren’t you, Belize.

Some days I weep with you, though, when you’re sad and in mourning. Other days I yell right along side and dance in the streets; we celebrate together, you and me. You know how to celebrate, Belize.

Sometimes though, Belize, you make me feel lonely. Some days I feel like I don’t belong with you; that we’ll never work, you and me. Sometimes I feel like you don’t know me at all; you haven’t even met my family yet. Will you ever really know me, Belize?

Belize, every once in a while I feel like I might hate you. Some days I’d rather be somewhere else. The others are prettier than you, you know. They comb their hair and put on perfume. Sometimes you’re too loud in the morning, Belize. I don’t like it when you shout at me during the day, and bang at night in your sleep.

Do you even want me here Belize? I never did ask your permission. You never invited me; I showed up on your doorstep with my bags and demanded you let me in. Some days I wonder if you want me here at all. Some days I wonder if I’ve overstayed my welcome; if you’d rather I’d be like the tourists who get off their cruise ships and back on in eight hours. Would you rather I be like the tourists, Belize?

Can I accompany you, Belize, please? I’d like it if you accompanied me, too. Have I told you that you already do, Belize? You hold my hand and cry with me some days, and swim with me in the sea on the others; you sit next to me on the long bus rides home, and laugh at me when I can’t understand your language.

Sometimes you make me feel really suffocated, Belize; you really are possessive now and then. You rarely let me call my family; you’ll only let me write letters. Sometimes I’m too tired to write letters, Belize.

Belize, sometimes I don’t understand you. Your words sound muffled and foreign, and it frustrates me. It doesn’t help when you yell them at me, Belize. Sometimes I feel like you embrace me with arms wide open, but other days you seem to turn your back to me. You really do turn away from me some days, Belize. Why do you do that? Some days you feel really far away.

Every so often I just want to hide from you, Belize, or run away. Some days I just want to sleep, but you won’t let me. You never let me sleep when I need it, Belize. And other days, I want to play, but you’re too busy. I hate it when you’re too busy to play. I don’t tell you though; I know it’d break your heart. There’s still a lot you don’t know about me, Belize. And I’m pretty sure I still have a lot to learn about you, too.

You’re like no one I’ve ever met, Belize. You look a lot different than the rest; you smell different, too. Belize, why do you smell sour and sound angry sometimes? There are times I feel like you just yell at me; sometimes I just want to yell back at you, Belize. I don’t like yelling. I’ve never told you; it scares me. Sometimes you scare me, Belize. Sometimes I want to pack my bags and move out. I take my pillow and my backpack and I sit on the curb, but I never get any farther. I’d never leave you early. I won’t leave until I have to. I promise you that much, Belize.

I learn from you, Belize. Do you know that? You teach me without either of us knowing it, most of the time. I learn how to suffer and celebrate, how to love and live. We teach each other, I think, you and me.

Most days you really are beautiful, Belize, maybe I don’t tell you that enough. You make me smile and laugh; you teach me how to sing and dance. I really love you on those days. I love you most of the time, Belize, especially the times you come bearing gifts. You always hide them though; you make me find them. You want it that way, don’t you, Belize. Have I thanked you for that, Belize, for everything? Thank you, Belize.