WARNING CONTAINS: me, generalizations about whole nations full of people, slang, possibly poor grammar choices, taxes, and a small entreaty to humanitarian outreach.
As a former teacher, I have often heard adults complain that schools do not prepare young people to do the numerous important tasks you're expected to know how to do out in the real world, e.g. write checks, balance accounts, read contracts, be thoughtful consumers, etc. And they're correct. Most American schools these days have no courses that teach "life skills" or even much practical, hands on anything. In case you're wondering, that's because schools have to get kids to pass fill-in-the-bubble paper tests and also because those adult skills are meant to be passed on by parents (that's bc old white dude govt assumes families are whole and stable wherein children listen to said parents - it's called 1950-never). Often, and I know because mine did, parents do attempt to share this knowledge with their children, but are frequently dismissed; I know because I dismissed mine.
But let's say for the sake of argument that you figure these things out either through family or friends and/or youtube videos (that's the "adulting" channel) . One day, you're a self-respecting, get-things-done, high functioning adult who decides to move to another country. And you think, "I can do this!" If you're me, you think, "My husband is British and I've lived in countries with unreliable electricity and mafia run black markets so England will be lush - I got this!" You, and I it turns out, would be horribly, horribly wrong.
When you move abroad to work for a company or even a school, they give you orientation materials, training maybe, and you might even be provided with housing. When you just pack your bags and step off a plane, into a rental house you've never seen, there is no booklet lying around that reads "Grownups Guide to the UK: everything you need to know about archaic laws and making tea." I've mentioned before on this blog our adventures with estate agents and strange chicken and egg scenarios with bank accounts and creditors. I've wowed you with my alien accounts of napkin wrapped birthday cake culture and other foreign rituals shrouded in mystery. But I haven't mentioned every bump partly because they're small and boring. They also make me appear a bit daft.
When I lived in the PRC, I was once robbed of several hundred Chinese dollars of my own free will through getting "change" from a woman pushing counterfeit bills. But I also bargained the hell out of every stall owner in the blocks around my school until they stopped trying to charge me four times the Chinese price. I have screamed obscenities at bus drivers who refused to pull over so I could puke in the street.
Once, in Prague, I had to find a Chinese restaurant so I could use a common language with the owner in order to borrow a phone to call my local friend after I couldn't find her flat.
Some friends and I found the equivalent of a 7/11 in a shack on Georgian (the nation) hillside in the dark so we could buy cheap vodka and chocolate instead of triple plus mark-up stuff at our hotel.
I've search Gaborne, Botswana on foot, by taxi, and with the police for a missing student (yes, I found them mostly unharmed).
My move count in America was at least 18 moves across five states in 30 plus years.
So you'd think I'd remember, after moving houses, to change my address with the local council (AKA county registrar) and, you know, pay my property tax. Or that my native hub would. But we didn't. And damn it if they're weren't' really nice about it since they admitted that someone ought to have "chased you up" after a year of unpaid bills.
Paying taxes ought to be a breeze after all of the above and passing the UK driving test. But between assets in two countries and payments from companies in both - we had to give up and hire an accountant and a lawyer, I mean solicitor, or face our brains melting and dripping from our heads.
Over the holidays, while visiting America, I found myself barely able to translate what a tombola is to friends who asked about British Christmas traditions. Why is a place to meet Santa called a grotto? Why are Pantomimes so popular? I got nothin' ladies and gents.
I still face inexplicable terminology and rituals and hoops that must be jumped through in England, two years into our experience living here. And so does my husband after more than 12 years living away.
So here let me stop being silly and self-effacing and say that all this has led me to consider how refugees deal; as aliens in foreign land, as people trying to keep a roof over their heads, get an education for their children, and to learn all their is to learn about adulting in brand new place, regardless of language - it is hard. Really hard. Soul crushing I'd imagine. That doesn't make the challenges I face less frustrating, but it has given me insight and it's made more thankful. I've also become more involved in immigrant issues as a result. Because I'm an immigrant. I'm just a super privileged, English speaking (sorta), monetarily able one.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Turkey Day
WARNING: contains gross generalizations about whole countries full of people, green jello/jelly, creamed soup, Native Americans, anti-capitalist sentiment, and me.
Hello All! Mostly, I write this blog from the perspective of a dazed immigrant in England. But today, on the American holiday of Thanksgiving, I bring you, my fellow British Isles dwellers (and according to my stats - European, Scandinavian, and Asian readers) a perspective from the United States.
Thanksgiving is much misunderstood as far as I can tell. A lot of Brits have said to me that it's bigger than Christmas, which it is not, unless you're a devout non-Christmaser (plenty of non-Christians have decorations and parties and presents at Christmas, just ask the Chinese). Others seem to think it solely food related and that the meal is really just another Christmas dinner. Also wrong.
First, Turkey Day, as many of us jokingly call it, can be quite different region to region, in particular by way of what's on the table. In the north eastern US, things might in fact look a lot like a British Christmas feast though often with some seafood tossed in. But in the rest of the country foods vary wildly and regional differences are sometimes superseded by ethnic background. I have a friend who's family in Korean and Italian - their dinner mixes the two. Where I'm from, in the south eastern US, we have rice instead of any white potato because rice was grown there for so long. We also have a stuffing that is cornbread based. We do peas for our green. And a 'savory' side my family eats is a sweet potato souffle topped with toasted marshmallows. I know that's not savory (I always eat it last), but it's on the plate with the turkey and gravy. Another accompaniment in my family is a 'salad' made with green jello/jelly, pecans, cream, and...horseradish. Yep. Not a salad. One day I'll properly research the origin of the atrocity that is is green jello salad, but for now accept my apologies for making you imagine it. Dessert/pudding in my family is a smorgasbord of diabetic coma inducing delights. Caramel cake, lemon curd tarts, pumpkin pie, plus any number of other things that we 'have' to have because so-and-so is coming and it's their favorite.
But that's not all the holiday is in my family. And here I have to say that I don't think my experience is unique, but obviously there will be differences across class and family issues. People come from far away. I have gone as far as twenty five hundred miles to attend Thanksgiving. On my mom's side of the family, it's my grandparents, all my aunts and uncles plus their kids. Sometimes there are family friends or more distant relations. My grandmother's cousin is a regular guest.
On the day, the kitchen and dining room are a buzz from early in the morning. With anywhere from 8 to 20 people present, it takes awhile to cook for that kind of crowd, even in an American size kitchen and oven. We nibble as we cook and set tables in fine china. We drink, slowly making our way from tea and coffee to wine and beer. There's conversation about things we remember from other Thanksgivings. We laugh over what we have in common and skirt nervously around what we don't. Sometimes tempers flare, usually as a result of trying too hard, wanting too much, or setting expectations beyond reasonable reach.
The day after Thanksgiving - now so well known as Black Friday* - is a mixture of things. Some people do shop. I participated in a few 5am trips to the mall in my teens, but it's never been something I wanted or needed to do. My favorite things on the Friday though are turkey hash (a bunch of leftovers all in one pot of stew-like goodness with extra gravy thrown in for good measure) and going to a movie with the family. On Saturday, we watch American football. It is a big rivalry day for my hometown team (the Georgia Bulldogs). That's a whole other set of traditions. We used to all go to church together Sunday morning, but as my grandmother ages, that's not always on the agenda.
I polled friends on fakeb00k for their faves (note, no one said shopping) and almost everyone has food/indulgence related feelings, a few like to do one of the many "turkey trot" charity runs, but most also said being together. Special mention to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (and other local parades) as fun family time too.
Key thing though, for all of the above, is that we are together. We are together until we can't stand to be together anymore. We are together in a way that fills up the spaces in between so that we are bonded in ways we don't even understand. We eat too much. We drink too much. We clog the family home's arteries.
It's a good holiday. In some ways, better than Christmas because really, as long as you're willing to eat and chat, there's no pressure to do anything else. The variety within the food traditions, the families that do shop versus the ones that don't, the 4 person dinner or 20 person feast, all have the requirement for togetherness in common. Even if it's only in spirit.
So, do as we do sometime in the coming days and go around the table, each saying something that they're thankful for (besides the good food) and maybe have an extra slice of cake or mince pie; then say cheers to your American brothers and sisters and count yourself lucky, see yourself blessed, or know yourself to be cared about in some form or fashion by this American.
*warning, rant ahead - the shopping insanity that surrounds the Thanksgiving holiday is relatively new. While the tradition of special sales is relatively long standing. I think what international media fails to address, when it covers the craziness, is the issue of commercializing BF and ramping up the stakes of cheap or free mid-price items ignores why people are "desperate" to participate. IMHO this is down to two things, the pressure that middle and lower income people feel to give presents that are commiserate with those of a higher income ("i don't want to disappoint ___." or "i can't have ___ go to school and everyone else have gotten a playstation but him") and the economic decline of the working class in America. Just saying. I have never felt the need to do BF, but I understand why others do, even if I wish they would opt-out of the false ideal of the BIG Christmas gift.
Hello All! Mostly, I write this blog from the perspective of a dazed immigrant in England. But today, on the American holiday of Thanksgiving, I bring you, my fellow British Isles dwellers (and according to my stats - European, Scandinavian, and Asian readers) a perspective from the United States.
Thanksgiving is much misunderstood as far as I can tell. A lot of Brits have said to me that it's bigger than Christmas, which it is not, unless you're a devout non-Christmaser (plenty of non-Christians have decorations and parties and presents at Christmas, just ask the Chinese). Others seem to think it solely food related and that the meal is really just another Christmas dinner. Also wrong.
First, Turkey Day, as many of us jokingly call it, can be quite different region to region, in particular by way of what's on the table. In the north eastern US, things might in fact look a lot like a British Christmas feast though often with some seafood tossed in. But in the rest of the country foods vary wildly and regional differences are sometimes superseded by ethnic background. I have a friend who's family in Korean and Italian - their dinner mixes the two. Where I'm from, in the south eastern US, we have rice instead of any white potato because rice was grown there for so long. We also have a stuffing that is cornbread based. We do peas for our green. And a 'savory' side my family eats is a sweet potato souffle topped with toasted marshmallows. I know that's not savory (I always eat it last), but it's on the plate with the turkey and gravy. Another accompaniment in my family is a 'salad' made with green jello/jelly, pecans, cream, and...horseradish. Yep. Not a salad. One day I'll properly research the origin of the atrocity that is is green jello salad, but for now accept my apologies for making you imagine it. Dessert/pudding in my family is a smorgasbord of diabetic coma inducing delights. Caramel cake, lemon curd tarts, pumpkin pie, plus any number of other things that we 'have' to have because so-and-so is coming and it's their favorite.
But that's not all the holiday is in my family. And here I have to say that I don't think my experience is unique, but obviously there will be differences across class and family issues. People come from far away. I have gone as far as twenty five hundred miles to attend Thanksgiving. On my mom's side of the family, it's my grandparents, all my aunts and uncles plus their kids. Sometimes there are family friends or more distant relations. My grandmother's cousin is a regular guest.
On the day, the kitchen and dining room are a buzz from early in the morning. With anywhere from 8 to 20 people present, it takes awhile to cook for that kind of crowd, even in an American size kitchen and oven. We nibble as we cook and set tables in fine china. We drink, slowly making our way from tea and coffee to wine and beer. There's conversation about things we remember from other Thanksgivings. We laugh over what we have in common and skirt nervously around what we don't. Sometimes tempers flare, usually as a result of trying too hard, wanting too much, or setting expectations beyond reasonable reach.
The day after Thanksgiving - now so well known as Black Friday* - is a mixture of things. Some people do shop. I participated in a few 5am trips to the mall in my teens, but it's never been something I wanted or needed to do. My favorite things on the Friday though are turkey hash (a bunch of leftovers all in one pot of stew-like goodness with extra gravy thrown in for good measure) and going to a movie with the family. On Saturday, we watch American football. It is a big rivalry day for my hometown team (the Georgia Bulldogs). That's a whole other set of traditions. We used to all go to church together Sunday morning, but as my grandmother ages, that's not always on the agenda.
I polled friends on fakeb00k for their faves (note, no one said shopping) and almost everyone has food/indulgence related feelings, a few like to do one of the many "turkey trot" charity runs, but most also said being together. Special mention to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (and other local parades) as fun family time too.
Key thing though, for all of the above, is that we are together. We are together until we can't stand to be together anymore. We are together in a way that fills up the spaces in between so that we are bonded in ways we don't even understand. We eat too much. We drink too much. We clog the family home's arteries.
It's a good holiday. In some ways, better than Christmas because really, as long as you're willing to eat and chat, there's no pressure to do anything else. The variety within the food traditions, the families that do shop versus the ones that don't, the 4 person dinner or 20 person feast, all have the requirement for togetherness in common. Even if it's only in spirit.
So, do as we do sometime in the coming days and go around the table, each saying something that they're thankful for (besides the good food) and maybe have an extra slice of cake or mince pie; then say cheers to your American brothers and sisters and count yourself lucky, see yourself blessed, or know yourself to be cared about in some form or fashion by this American.
*warning, rant ahead - the shopping insanity that surrounds the Thanksgiving holiday is relatively new. While the tradition of special sales is relatively long standing. I think what international media fails to address, when it covers the craziness, is the issue of commercializing BF and ramping up the stakes of cheap or free mid-price items ignores why people are "desperate" to participate. IMHO this is down to two things, the pressure that middle and lower income people feel to give presents that are commiserate with those of a higher income ("i don't want to disappoint ___." or "i can't have ___ go to school and everyone else have gotten a playstation but him") and the economic decline of the working class in America. Just saying. I have never felt the need to do BF, but I understand why others do, even if I wish they would opt-out of the false ideal of the BIG Christmas gift.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Those Who Can't Do
WARNING CONTAINS: me not trying to be funny or entertaining or writerly.
I've been thinking a lot lately about social media and expression. Also about community. And about how we as individuals understand humanity. By humanity, I mean all people. From a brain function perspective we can't. Our brains are made to stereotype, to create predictable categories, and gloss over details until there's a clear and present need for them. This is why, when distracted, people will walk into walls or telephone polls, or those silly strap fences used to make people form lines as I watched a woman do today.
I've partly been thinking about these things cos-syria-refugees-massmurders-american-politics-BS. But I started thinking about them, pre-paris (yes, I know there were other attacks. If it bothers you that I grieve more for a place I've been than a place I haven't, then my apologies for my human frailty and that's kind of what this is about). I started to ponder because I'm just so f-ing sick of fakebook. I'm tired of all the polarizing, you must chose my side, my way or the highway, left and right exaggerations and willful misunderstandings. I'm part of the problem, I know. I share political stuff. And I, like a lot of my friends, have started sharing less and less actual personal feelings, day to day to events, and what I'm doing. Which begs the question of why I'm there. I remain to share photos and updates about my kids w/family and friends. But even that I'm doing less. Because I don't feel safe. I don't feel, most days, connected to my connections. That's as much my fault as theirs. It makes me sad.
Then yesterday, a former student of mine who is Muslim posted that she was appalled by the hate in her timeline. That all she saw were rushes to judgement, rejections of the basic humanity of people based on religion, and misinformation about her faith. And I thought, that's not what my timeline looks like. As much as there're insane levels of politics, click-bait, strange gifs, fake tumblr posts, and cat videos - there's not a lot of hate. I answered her by posting about all the outpouring of sorrow I'd seen. That I had friends actively involved in trying to bring refugees into their own homes/neighborhoods/communities.
Afterward, I started thinking about why. Why do I have such a compassionate timeline, with rare exception. Why do I know that terrorism isn't part of Islam? Why do I know that compassion and empathy are the cure for conflict?
I think it's because I've been a teacher. In my classrooms, I have spoken daily with Muslims, Hindus, Christians, atheists, Buddhist, and more. I've taught homosexuals, queers, and undecideds. Several of my students during my first year teaching public school are the autism spectrum. One of my students in my second year of teaching was homeless. I've taught drug addicts, thieves, and get-a-way drivers. One of my students is a fashion designer. A few former students became teen-moms. I've taught football players and chess champions. This is partly reflected in my social media. But it is mostly reflected in my world view. That thing where my brain might gloss over the detail stops when I see someone like someone I've known, spoken with, loved. I walk around the wall.
So since those who can't do, teach. And those who can't teach, make laws about teaching. I'm challenging each of you reading this. Not to become teachers (too much work, trust me). But go OUT. Meet some new people. Talk to someone who is unlike anyone you grew up with. Find a moment each day from now until New Year's Day to speak with a fellow human whose view into humanity is in some real way in contrast to your own. In person.* And, now here's the hard part, listen more than you talk. Ask more questions that you don't already think you know the answer to. Report back. Let me know if you can spot the humanity. I'll be praying for you.**
*Dear friends with social anxiety. If this is too much for you, I understand. Can I recommend that you instead read HONY every day. Read the comments too (not all of them, good grief).
**I just mean that I'll be hoping you find more love than rejection, take it easy. It's an expression.
I've been thinking a lot lately about social media and expression. Also about community. And about how we as individuals understand humanity. By humanity, I mean all people. From a brain function perspective we can't. Our brains are made to stereotype, to create predictable categories, and gloss over details until there's a clear and present need for them. This is why, when distracted, people will walk into walls or telephone polls, or those silly strap fences used to make people form lines as I watched a woman do today.
I've partly been thinking about these things cos-syria-refugees-massmurders-american-politics-BS. But I started thinking about them, pre-paris (yes, I know there were other attacks. If it bothers you that I grieve more for a place I've been than a place I haven't, then my apologies for my human frailty and that's kind of what this is about). I started to ponder because I'm just so f-ing sick of fakebook. I'm tired of all the polarizing, you must chose my side, my way or the highway, left and right exaggerations and willful misunderstandings. I'm part of the problem, I know. I share political stuff. And I, like a lot of my friends, have started sharing less and less actual personal feelings, day to day to events, and what I'm doing. Which begs the question of why I'm there. I remain to share photos and updates about my kids w/family and friends. But even that I'm doing less. Because I don't feel safe. I don't feel, most days, connected to my connections. That's as much my fault as theirs. It makes me sad.
Then yesterday, a former student of mine who is Muslim posted that she was appalled by the hate in her timeline. That all she saw were rushes to judgement, rejections of the basic humanity of people based on religion, and misinformation about her faith. And I thought, that's not what my timeline looks like. As much as there're insane levels of politics, click-bait, strange gifs, fake tumblr posts, and cat videos - there's not a lot of hate. I answered her by posting about all the outpouring of sorrow I'd seen. That I had friends actively involved in trying to bring refugees into their own homes/neighborhoods/communities.
Afterward, I started thinking about why. Why do I have such a compassionate timeline, with rare exception. Why do I know that terrorism isn't part of Islam? Why do I know that compassion and empathy are the cure for conflict?
I think it's because I've been a teacher. In my classrooms, I have spoken daily with Muslims, Hindus, Christians, atheists, Buddhist, and more. I've taught homosexuals, queers, and undecideds. Several of my students during my first year teaching public school are the autism spectrum. One of my students in my second year of teaching was homeless. I've taught drug addicts, thieves, and get-a-way drivers. One of my students is a fashion designer. A few former students became teen-moms. I've taught football players and chess champions. This is partly reflected in my social media. But it is mostly reflected in my world view. That thing where my brain might gloss over the detail stops when I see someone like someone I've known, spoken with, loved. I walk around the wall.
So since those who can't do, teach. And those who can't teach, make laws about teaching. I'm challenging each of you reading this. Not to become teachers (too much work, trust me). But go OUT. Meet some new people. Talk to someone who is unlike anyone you grew up with. Find a moment each day from now until New Year's Day to speak with a fellow human whose view into humanity is in some real way in contrast to your own. In person.* And, now here's the hard part, listen more than you talk. Ask more questions that you don't already think you know the answer to. Report back. Let me know if you can spot the humanity. I'll be praying for you.**
*Dear friends with social anxiety. If this is too much for you, I understand. Can I recommend that you instead read HONY every day. Read the comments too (not all of them, good grief).
**I just mean that I'll be hoping you find more love than rejection, take it easy. It's an expression.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
I Had a Dream
Because in some ways, my life has come full circle lately, bringing back into orbit around the career I once aspired to and the life I was once led, I've been thinking a lot about dreams. The kind dreams everyone says you should have. That you should follow and never let go of lest your heart and soul whither into dust.
But I have something different to say about that -
I had a dream. And now it's over. That is Okay.
In other words
But I have something different to say about that -
I had a dream. And now it's over. That is Okay.
In other words
Because, in truth I've had a couple of dreams over the course of my life so far and the fact that none of them came true, or at least in the way I envisaged, is something I am thankful for every day. Just because when I was 19 I said I was going to be a film director, not have kids, and definitely not associate too much with British people doesn't mean that I've betrayed all that is holy by dumping Hollywood, having two pretty great kiddos, and moving to England (where, in case you didn't know, a lot of British people live).
When I was 9, I wanted to be an astronaut/pilot the space shuttle. But when I went to SpaceCamp and was spun around, promptly hurling my guts out, no one said, "You can't give up on being a pilot now. You said it was your dream!" No one said that because the facts were pretty clear that piloting was not in my motion-sickness-prone future.
My desire to work in film was really only slightly more developed and rooted in reality than my astronaut aspirations. I didn't research the gig or map out how I'd get to the Oscars. I had no idea how to be a director and, let's be honest, I wasn't entirely sure what directors even did until I was on a set wondering why the quiet dude in the baseball hat with a scruffy beard seemed in charge. Turns out, the things I enjoyed most about working in film were research, travel, organizing, and telling people what to do. I'm good at those things. A skill set with multiple applications I'm happy to say; including child rearing. Who knew?!
Another reason I've been mulling this idea, because I realize I've posted about this before elsewhere, is that in the loooonnnnggg lead up to the American election next year, the term "America Dream" (hence forth know as the AD) is getting bandied about even more than usual, which is saying something. The basic AD is having a successful career; one that allows you to live in a suburban dwelling you own, provide for your nuclear family, and retire in security. A problem I have always seen with the AD though is that it's a working class dream. A plumber's dream. A middle management dream. If you're someone who wants to get a job, work 40-50hours a week, have 2.5 kids, and go to Florida every summer, it might work out great. That kind of job and life profile is less and less the norm. It's less and less profitable and even possible for far too many Americans. I know people who work over 50 hours a week or have two jobs or slog through a gig they actively hate. All to afford a home. The partner, kids, and vacations are aspirational or if they have those, the work becomes something they have to constantly stress about - keeping the job, getting the raise, finding a way to out shine the next guy, so they don't lose it. I hear you saying it, "the rat race." And I hear you too, socially conscious friends, saying this is a white-people/middle-class problem. Obviously that's true. I acknowledge I'm talking about a specific class and even ethic perspective here. This is a non-fiction blog, so I can't be other than I am and expanding this discussion to a broader experience would take YEARS to compose.
I'm not saying quit the rat race. I'm not even saying give up on your dream or the AD. However, I will say that we'd all do well to remember that we are not obligated to run. Each of us has choices to make in our lives. We can choose our priorities and how we wish to live day to day. I encourage you to think about what you value that has no price tag. What do you need that will one day pass away? Does your work compliment your life or does it only take away from your ability to enjoy your experiences?
I've gone in a circle, but I've also change the color and the tone of that circle. It is smaller than it used to be but no less bright.
Friday, September 11, 2015
The Immigrant's Limbo
**WARNING contains me, gross generalizations about whole nations of people, chases and escapes, and some thoughtful rambling.**
I have been working a post about British summer fairs/fetes on and off for a month or so, but with other writing and reading commitments I haven't been able to finish it. Also, summer ended unceremoniously about two weeks ago here in England and that sort of takes the joy out of a summer post. I'll save it for next year because I need to move on and definitely need to post something!
Meanwhile, I went home to America for three weeks and when I returned to the UK the refugee crisis slapped me around the head and heart for awhile. So instead I find myself thinking about "going home" and thinking about the reasons people choose to be immigrants as well as how unfathomably lucky I am via the accident of my birthplace not to be a refugee. Note I am not using those terms interchangeably. I have immigrated, chasing travel and culture. Syrians are refugees fleeing death.
Going "home" to where my parents live is not like going home for most people. I have not lived in the state of my birth since I was nine years old. For thirty years now (AHHHH!!!!), heading to the homeland is a vacation, always a temporary experience.
My "heart home", as a friend calls it, is in and around Chapel Hill, North Carolina where I went to most of high school. I have come and gone from the CH area at least six times since I graduated high school, most recently I lived in nearby Raleigh for eleven years with my now husband. I had two kids there. My oldest friends are all there or call it home. It's the reason James Taylor songs sometimes make me weepy.
This past trip to America, the fam and I all went to Raleigh for a week and it is the longest I've been in my HH (heart-home, you remember the previous paragraph, right?) since moving to England. I was worried before the visit that I was just going to spend the whole time crying; mourning this place I love, the people there that I love even more, and the life I had there. It was a surprise not to feel that way. I think there are two main reasons why I didn't, but I reserve the right as I go on to have those two reasons turn into three or four, so don't get too attached to those numbers.
One, after two weeks in America the sprawl was waring on me. Seriously y'all, we have a problem with too many things and being far and no one driving with any kind of sense. British drivers are simply better than us.* They rarely talk on the phone or text while driving. And while I may not know where/which shops to get things in here in England, when I figure it out, the shop will have the thing and I will not have search to endlessly in a cavern of goods all screaming "BUY ME!" and "You know you need more!"
Also, when we were in Raleigh my partner worked and I partly did my old routine with my kids. It felt comfortable and familiar, not unlike visiting my home town in Georgia. I know where the fun stuff is, the tasty food, and I can get from point A to point B without satnav. I struggled a little with not being able to do everything I wanted or see everyone I could have, but it wasn't overwhelming. We didn't have anyone to babysit, so people came to see us in the evenings as well. Sitting at a kitchen table chatting with friends was lovely and exactly the way I wanted to spend time with people. But it's also so familiar that it was hard to feel sad about not being able to do it anytime I want.
An unexpected thing happened too. When people implied or directly asked if I was unhappy or dissatisfied living England - I got defensive. Like I was all "it's so beautiful, I can't complain" and "where we are, the pace is a little slower and I like that" or "the tea really is so much better." I know that I partly reacted this way because I don't like people pitying me and I also don't want anyone getting the idea that I came to the UK to make my partner happy and have no agency. Cos that ain't so. I am lonely here. A lot. But America felt icky in more ways than the ninety plus degree heat with ridiculous humidity.
When I have lived abroad in the past, coming back to the US took adjusting to. After Tblisi, it was the whole "I'm really a grown up" thing (hahaha). After China, I stood WAY too close to people all the time and had anxiety attacks in the grocery store. Now I find coming back to America, even to The South wherein I really treasure people's friendliness, kind of slaps me in the face with commercialism and go-go and consumerism. It is, in a word, Aggressive. When you are IN a culture, you get desensitized. You perceive standing with your nose touching the head of the person in front of you as the norm. And in America, we have accepted a high level of obnoxious advertising and media invading our lives. We reward pushy people. And now I find that it sparks at the back of mind in a way that is annoying/tiring over time.
None of this is to say I dislike America. Nor is England some sort of Utopia. My oldest got back and was saying "hello" to everyone we passed in the street because that's what we do in Georgia. I felt bad that he wasn't getting the same charming attention in the UK as he had in the US. People in the UK don't give good hugs, at least they don't give them to me very often.
At the end of the day, this is what it is like to immigrate (by choice) somewhere. Going back and forth between cultures and feeling neither is quite right anymore. It's like after you have a baby and even though you've lost your baby weight your old clothes don't fit right. Your body has experienced a shift that loss of pounds cannot restore. You have to wrap yourself in something new and learn how to be comfortable in your freshly renovated body.
So here I am back in England. And it felt nice to come back to my house with my things in it. To be with my little family and not have to share ourselves or our time. The temperatures were of course a relief. Winding green lanes were once again novel and lovely; after I stopped being terrified of being on the wrong side. Again. And I realize that living in England has moved my inner tectonic plates. Change has come again to my random and twisty life. Loneliness has led me focusing more on my writing. Friendships are dearer, near and far. The slower pace (no really all this travel and stuff is actually slower) that my day to day has taken on is mostly a good thing. And seriously, the tea and cake are pretty spectacular.
Nobody panic though. I'm not applying for citizenship and I'm still disinclined to garden. There's iced tea in my fridge and sweet potatoes in my pantry.
*I am ignoring all white van drivers, you know who you are.
I have been working a post about British summer fairs/fetes on and off for a month or so, but with other writing and reading commitments I haven't been able to finish it. Also, summer ended unceremoniously about two weeks ago here in England and that sort of takes the joy out of a summer post. I'll save it for next year because I need to move on and definitely need to post something!
Meanwhile, I went home to America for three weeks and when I returned to the UK the refugee crisis slapped me around the head and heart for awhile. So instead I find myself thinking about "going home" and thinking about the reasons people choose to be immigrants as well as how unfathomably lucky I am via the accident of my birthplace not to be a refugee. Note I am not using those terms interchangeably. I have immigrated, chasing travel and culture. Syrians are refugees fleeing death.
Going "home" to where my parents live is not like going home for most people. I have not lived in the state of my birth since I was nine years old. For thirty years now (AHHHH!!!!), heading to the homeland is a vacation, always a temporary experience.
My "heart home", as a friend calls it, is in and around Chapel Hill, North Carolina where I went to most of high school. I have come and gone from the CH area at least six times since I graduated high school, most recently I lived in nearby Raleigh for eleven years with my now husband. I had two kids there. My oldest friends are all there or call it home. It's the reason James Taylor songs sometimes make me weepy.
This past trip to America, the fam and I all went to Raleigh for a week and it is the longest I've been in my HH (heart-home, you remember the previous paragraph, right?) since moving to England. I was worried before the visit that I was just going to spend the whole time crying; mourning this place I love, the people there that I love even more, and the life I had there. It was a surprise not to feel that way. I think there are two main reasons why I didn't, but I reserve the right as I go on to have those two reasons turn into three or four, so don't get too attached to those numbers.
One, after two weeks in America the sprawl was waring on me. Seriously y'all, we have a problem with too many things and being far and no one driving with any kind of sense. British drivers are simply better than us.* They rarely talk on the phone or text while driving. And while I may not know where/which shops to get things in here in England, when I figure it out, the shop will have the thing and I will not have search to endlessly in a cavern of goods all screaming "BUY ME!" and "You know you need more!"
Also, when we were in Raleigh my partner worked and I partly did my old routine with my kids. It felt comfortable and familiar, not unlike visiting my home town in Georgia. I know where the fun stuff is, the tasty food, and I can get from point A to point B without satnav. I struggled a little with not being able to do everything I wanted or see everyone I could have, but it wasn't overwhelming. We didn't have anyone to babysit, so people came to see us in the evenings as well. Sitting at a kitchen table chatting with friends was lovely and exactly the way I wanted to spend time with people. But it's also so familiar that it was hard to feel sad about not being able to do it anytime I want.
An unexpected thing happened too. When people implied or directly asked if I was unhappy or dissatisfied living England - I got defensive. Like I was all "it's so beautiful, I can't complain" and "where we are, the pace is a little slower and I like that" or "the tea really is so much better." I know that I partly reacted this way because I don't like people pitying me and I also don't want anyone getting the idea that I came to the UK to make my partner happy and have no agency. Cos that ain't so. I am lonely here. A lot. But America felt icky in more ways than the ninety plus degree heat with ridiculous humidity.
When I have lived abroad in the past, coming back to the US took adjusting to. After Tblisi, it was the whole "I'm really a grown up" thing (hahaha). After China, I stood WAY too close to people all the time and had anxiety attacks in the grocery store. Now I find coming back to America, even to The South wherein I really treasure people's friendliness, kind of slaps me in the face with commercialism and go-go and consumerism. It is, in a word, Aggressive. When you are IN a culture, you get desensitized. You perceive standing with your nose touching the head of the person in front of you as the norm. And in America, we have accepted a high level of obnoxious advertising and media invading our lives. We reward pushy people. And now I find that it sparks at the back of mind in a way that is annoying/tiring over time.
None of this is to say I dislike America. Nor is England some sort of Utopia. My oldest got back and was saying "hello" to everyone we passed in the street because that's what we do in Georgia. I felt bad that he wasn't getting the same charming attention in the UK as he had in the US. People in the UK don't give good hugs, at least they don't give them to me very often.
At the end of the day, this is what it is like to immigrate (by choice) somewhere. Going back and forth between cultures and feeling neither is quite right anymore. It's like after you have a baby and even though you've lost your baby weight your old clothes don't fit right. Your body has experienced a shift that loss of pounds cannot restore. You have to wrap yourself in something new and learn how to be comfortable in your freshly renovated body.
So here I am back in England. And it felt nice to come back to my house with my things in it. To be with my little family and not have to share ourselves or our time. The temperatures were of course a relief. Winding green lanes were once again novel and lovely; after I stopped being terrified of being on the wrong side. Again. And I realize that living in England has moved my inner tectonic plates. Change has come again to my random and twisty life. Loneliness has led me focusing more on my writing. Friendships are dearer, near and far. The slower pace (no really all this travel and stuff is actually slower) that my day to day has taken on is mostly a good thing. And seriously, the tea and cake are pretty spectacular.
Nobody panic though. I'm not applying for citizenship and I'm still disinclined to garden. There's iced tea in my fridge and sweet potatoes in my pantry.
*I am ignoring all white van drivers, you know who you are.
Monday, July 13, 2015
Almost Like Running
This is a short story that I've been entering into things (in slightly shorter and longer versions). Posting it on my blog is not a form of publication. I am sharing it with a community for feedback and support. No portion of this story should be posted elsewhere, shared, or reproduced with out permission of the author, which is ME.
Almost like Running
Almost like Running
I can’t run. But that’s no big deal since I can’t walk either. Nor can I sit up totally on my own or wipe my own ass very well. I’ve never been able to do those things though, so I’m not completely sure I miss them. Of course lots of people, mostly my parents, talk to me a lot about privacy and trying to respect mine since I don’t get much “alone time”. But as with my inability to move and the toilet routine, I’ve never really had privacy the way they think of it, so I don’t know how to crave it. I don’t know how to miss most of the things I can’t do. Except for running. That’s the one that gets me. My wheelchair is motorized and it can get fairly speedy; the wind blows my hair a bit and I feel the tingle of speed and its dangerousness. So I feel like I can say that while I have never run, I miss it. My body misses it.
“Vincent, are you going to miss me?” Nurse Nancy asked. I would and I knew it. But you can’t say that because who would yearn to be in the hospital.
“I’m ready to go home and since you can’t come with me…” I answered lightly.
“You’re such a sweetheart, little Vincent,” she said. I was always going to be “little Vincent” to the nurses at St.Stephen’s. They’d looked after me almost since I was born. But really, little Vincent was looking down Nancy’s scrubs whenever she vigorously tucked in the blanket at the bottom of my bed. I mean, I couldn’t look away when she did it. It was mesmerizing, that swaying flesh.
I dream about running a lot. Well, maybe not as much as I dream about flying and occasionally Nurse Nancy, but I think my running dreams are the ones that are simultaneously the best and worst of my dreams. The running dreams feel real. As though somewhere in my DNA is the program code for running and my brain can take it and play it through my mind and across my body so that during the dreams I feel totally whole. I am wind. My muscles and veins throb with life. And then I wake up. I can never go back to the same feeling if I try to go to sleep again right away. On those nights I don’t usually go back to sleep at all. It’s too depressing. So, I read.
“Whatcha reading there Big Guy?” my Dad asked.
“Something for school. Kinda boring,” I said. Total lie. I was reading “Dune.” I’d read the school assigned book in one night and had no intention of cracking it again because what I said about being boring was definitely true.
If there’s an invention that I think has made life hugely better for people like me in last hundred years, it’s the ebook. I don’t have to ask anyone to read or try to wrangle a heavy book into a spot where I can both see it and turn the pages. Harder than you think when you’re farsighted and can’t lean too far forward or turn over easily. If I’m lucky, my older sister will help me to bed and she’ll let me keep my earbuds and ipad close. My parents think those things are distraction from rest. I guess I get to be a normal teen at least in a few ways.
“Honey, you can’t have the ipad in bed. You’ve got school tomorrow and Nelly has a track meet,” Mom said.
“Aw, come on. I won’t use it unless I can’t sleep,” I said.
“You won’t be able to sleep if you know you can use it. Right? Give it,” my Mom opened and closed her hand at me like needy two-year old.
“Fine,” I said in my best surely-teen voice, but really I’d already snuck my ebook under my pillow. The ipad was just red herring.
After my running dreams, I like to read either science fiction or westerns. Frankly, I think they are mostly the same. I mean there’s always bad guys and a mission to do, or a wrong to right, and shooting things with either lasers or bullets. My favorite western is this stupid historical one that is kind of a romance novel I think. I found it for free in the stuff posted by authors on the ebook website. I don’t care so much about the love story and I really don’t care about this chick’s petticoats and their various levels of tightening. But the writer knows how to write about horses so well that I don’t care about the rest. The author, it says it’s by Terrance Walter but seriously that is not a name, must be from a horse farm or something. He has this amazing scene where horses from the chick’s family farm get loose and end up running through the streets of Chicago.
“Each horse in its turn, no more than half a footstep from the next, rumbled and thundered down the clapboard road at a speed that said anyone caught in their path risked the pain of death. Their brown coats heaved and swelled as their breathes reached peak to bring their trampling hooves down upon the earth like rail splitting hammers. Their legs pulsing as their hearts strained to keep the pace of freedom.”
Gets me every time. Reading it is almost like being in the dream. Almost like running. My breath always get a bit fast and I have to close my eyes to calm down before I set off any alarms on my monitoring machine in the night. That Terrance, he knows what it is to miss running.
“Corny, does running ever hurt?” I asked my sister.
“Shut up, Vicks,” she said and swatted at the back of my head. A moment later, “After sometimes. Like muscle cramps.” I nodded and wondered if massages would help, like the ones I get from my physical therapist.
Of course, I can’t think about running for too long before I also start to think about The Wind. No. Not the actual wind. Her. Edwina Moran, otherwise known as The Wind or, if you’re friends with her like my sister is, Winnie. She’s the star of my school’s track team, hence the nickname; which is probably good because a name like Edwina could cause you problems even in a school as touchy-feely as mine.
“Sweetie, you’re going to love it,” my mom said.
“I have to write an essay about what fears I have about starting high school? Seriously?” I asked and rolled my eyes.
“Everyone is scared to start high school honey. It is a big thing in life,” she replied.
“Ugh. I’m not scared though. Are there doctors with bone saws?” She shook her head no, “Then I'll be fine.”
I go to a private Quaker school. It is fairly fancy and known for good academics. My parents wanted me to go to a school that not only had great facilities for me and my wheels but an “attitude of acceptance and appreciation,” my mom had said. They started my sister Corny there first to help me get in. Ok, her name isn’t Corny. It is Cornelia, but I call her Corny because I have be the annoying younger sibling somehow. I guess that really says it all about my school though. They appreciate people like me and my fellow students have names like Edwina. There’s a dude in my art class named Zeus, my teachers all go by their first names and one of them is called Harmony. Yeah, that paints the whole picture right there I think.
“Hey dude, nice wheels,” Zeus said in all seriousness, admiring my motorized wheelchair. “My uncle’s chair has, like, voice commands.” He nodded to himself a beat after he spoke.
“Until they make a chair that will take a shit for me, voice command is pretty useless to me.” I said.
“That is gross, dude. And hilarious,” Zeus chuckled in a voice too deep for a fifteen-year old but perfect for someone named after a God.
Back to Edwina. Winnie is the love of my young life. I don’t imagine I’ll marry her or pursue her cross country to college in Washington state, where she’s planning to go according Corny. I just imagine that I’m going to love her as long as I can. And in all likelihood from a distance of about twenty feet. That’s the distance from the handicapped square where I sit in my wheels and watch her and the starting line of the track. I don’t go to watch the track team practice every day. That would be super obvious. But I do go to every meet. The coach sometimes calls me their mascot and ruffles my hair like I’m four. I resist the urge to bite her every time. After all, we are the Ballentine Bulldogs. Every now and then, Winnie will come say hello to me. I’m polite, but not too friendly. She sometimes says that it is really nice of me to support my sister and that her parents don’t usually come watch her. Once I told her that being good at something could be a curse, like maybe they got bored of watching her win. She said she never thought of that and promptly lost her next race.
“Hey, Vincent,” Edwina said just a few minutes before the start of Corny’s race.
“Hey, Winnie. You think Corny can win today?” I liked to keep conversation light and I tried very hard not to stare at her perfect face for too long. I focused on keeping my breaths even.
“Yeah, their top shortie isn’t here and she seems psyched,” Edwina nodded towards Corny shaking her arms out at the starting blocks.
“Hmm, yeah,” I wanted to ask her something clever. Something that would make her keep talking to me but not scream I’m in love with you! “Are you parents here?” Not my best work.
“My mom is supposed to come actually. But she’s always late. We call it ‘Betsy-time’ because it’s like normal time plus two hours. Laters,” and then she was gone.
I love to watch Edwina start a race. She’s a mid-distance runner, so like 800 meters, or two laps around the track. She never tries to be first off the blocks. I watch her watching her competitors, side-eyeing their stances and measuring them up. I can’t say for sure, but I feel like she hesitates a split second off the blocks just so she can see people start to pass her. Then The Wind lengthens her strides and ever so slowly inches to be even with whomever is in front. They might think they’re fine, that they can take her in the last 30 meters or something. They are wrong. The Wind then blows past them, barely speeding up then seemingly exploding down the line to the finish. It is magnificent.
“She’s pretty great, huh?” a voice next me said.
“Yes,” I said breathlessly, lost in admiration. I realized my mistake and looked up. A woman who had to be Edwina’s mother stood there with matching hazel eyes, rounded nose, and lips that thinned into a line when her mouth was closed.
“I love her too,” Betsy said. “But I’m not sure she’ll ever really know it. What about you?”
“Probably not.” I said and returned my eyes to the track where Edwina had, of course, just won her race. Betsy placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
“Stranger things have happened. I got here on time after all.”
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Writers are People too.
(when I say "writer life", I really just mean my writer life, such as it is, and totally biased by my own experience)
Writers are weird.
And I mean that with total love and affection. Since I'm not editing, why don't I write about why we are weird instead.
Sometimes there's a lot of what I call "shelf measuring" wherein writers do a couple of different things depending on their persuasion. A writer who is a total book nerd will try to find out if you are a book nerd too. Do you go to second hand shops and look for copies of books you already own but with strange, one-off covers? Have you run out of room in your house for all your books?
A writer who considers anyone less "literary" than themselves not worth their time will attempt to suss out your feelings on Gogol because Tolstoy is too mainstream. These are basically hipster writers who in addition to their snobbery over the classics hoard their new writer finds.
Writers who are more academic will ask about your influences and offer you a copy of a book about writing by a professor type because you need anchoring in structured practice.
There are the writers who love words; they know a lot of wonderful quotes, work tirelessly on phrasing, and want to know if you've read any great wordsmith's they've yet to discover.
Many writers have a favorite genre or time period of writing that they get a bit of tunnel vision about. They'll tell you lovingly about the depth of X during the Y or describe a genre in such a way to make it all encompassing of the human experience, with or without unicorns.
There are the fan writers who have a favorite book they just have to tell everyone changed their life and is the reason they decided to become a writer and they're dying to know if you've read it. Note if you have, purchase a pot of tea, not just a cup...and a piece of cake so you can chew thoughtfully.
We also all get writer's block. Some people say they never get this. They are lying. It may not feel like a block to them because they've got a plot map or they're taking time off to look back at things afresh or they're just too busy to write for a little while. In my book, those are all blocks. My kids are walking, talking writing blocks because they often physically bar me from the page. Recently, I saw a quote that I am not going to bother googling (you do that, I wrote this, it took time) that basically said writers are people who have a harder time writing than normal people. I'd put money on that idea meaning slightly different things to every writer. To me, it means that I care too much about my writing. I want it to be good the first time. Really good. I don't want to go back and make it better (yes, i live in the place with the unicorns). To another writer it may be that finishing an idea, an arc is hard because our plots can't just be regular old character meets problem finds resolution. Some writers want to weave a plot, throw you a curve ball, toss in some revelatory knowledge via the subtext of that chic-lit.
Then there's the complaining. Oh my. We love it. About how hard it is. About editing. About finding this and making that and sending and submitting. Up. Hill. Both ways. Kvetching. But at least we do it together. It's good. How could we deal with all the rejection otherwise?
Some of us...ok, all of us, are competitive, though to drastically different degrees. You want to be happy for your friend that just got an agent, a deal, a publishing date. And you are Happy. But you're also jealous. When your profession requires soul baring, when your daily writing life is spent trying to create some kind of art via scratching marks on a page, it is hard to feel like "no one" is ever going to see it or appreciate it. There are naturally more competitive and petty writers out there, but that's true of humanity. Mostly there are good folks.
Procrastinating might be a thing too, but I wouldn't know.
Writers are weird.
And I mean that with total love and affection. Since I'm not editing, why don't I write about why we are weird instead.
Sometimes there's a lot of what I call "shelf measuring" wherein writers do a couple of different things depending on their persuasion. A writer who is a total book nerd will try to find out if you are a book nerd too. Do you go to second hand shops and look for copies of books you already own but with strange, one-off covers? Have you run out of room in your house for all your books?
A writer who considers anyone less "literary" than themselves not worth their time will attempt to suss out your feelings on Gogol because Tolstoy is too mainstream. These are basically hipster writers who in addition to their snobbery over the classics hoard their new writer finds.
Writers who are more academic will ask about your influences and offer you a copy of a book about writing by a professor type because you need anchoring in structured practice.
There are the writers who love words; they know a lot of wonderful quotes, work tirelessly on phrasing, and want to know if you've read any great wordsmith's they've yet to discover.
Many writers have a favorite genre or time period of writing that they get a bit of tunnel vision about. They'll tell you lovingly about the depth of X during the Y or describe a genre in such a way to make it all encompassing of the human experience, with or without unicorns.
There are the fan writers who have a favorite book they just have to tell everyone changed their life and is the reason they decided to become a writer and they're dying to know if you've read it. Note if you have, purchase a pot of tea, not just a cup...and a piece of cake so you can chew thoughtfully.
We also all get writer's block. Some people say they never get this. They are lying. It may not feel like a block to them because they've got a plot map or they're taking time off to look back at things afresh or they're just too busy to write for a little while. In my book, those are all blocks. My kids are walking, talking writing blocks because they often physically bar me from the page. Recently, I saw a quote that I am not going to bother googling (you do that, I wrote this, it took time) that basically said writers are people who have a harder time writing than normal people. I'd put money on that idea meaning slightly different things to every writer. To me, it means that I care too much about my writing. I want it to be good the first time. Really good. I don't want to go back and make it better (yes, i live in the place with the unicorns). To another writer it may be that finishing an idea, an arc is hard because our plots can't just be regular old character meets problem finds resolution. Some writers want to weave a plot, throw you a curve ball, toss in some revelatory knowledge via the subtext of that chic-lit.
Then there's the complaining. Oh my. We love it. About how hard it is. About editing. About finding this and making that and sending and submitting. Up. Hill. Both ways. Kvetching. But at least we do it together. It's good. How could we deal with all the rejection otherwise?
Some of us...ok, all of us, are competitive, though to drastically different degrees. You want to be happy for your friend that just got an agent, a deal, a publishing date. And you are Happy. But you're also jealous. When your profession requires soul baring, when your daily writing life is spent trying to create some kind of art via scratching marks on a page, it is hard to feel like "no one" is ever going to see it or appreciate it. There are naturally more competitive and petty writers out there, but that's true of humanity. Mostly there are good folks.
Procrastinating might be a thing too, but I wouldn't know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)