I crave fish and chips. I don't know how it happened but people seem to be psychically picking up on it because people keep referring to fish and chips in my presence. Almost as though they are teasing me. Am I thinking out-loud again?
It's hard you know, you're not as homesick as you feel - nostalgia is not your friend. Trust me on this, there is nothing novel about being an American abroad. Partly because, unless you blog maybe and have a massive fan-base - there is no one to brag to. So in the end, you're just another isolated foreigner. The British in particular are so xenophobic that everything you do will just be queer and gawky. No one will treat you like you're cute and novel.
You want to say things to other Americans like "look how cool I am, I figured out the system - I can do anything here like a native" but you look around and no one else is American, and the ones that are American are either too squirrelly for words or have the same thing to say back to you. Usually, the Americans you find are so drained and fatigued from working said system, that you can't even vent together.
Of all the lingo I perfected in my years in Britain, the single most expressive was The Sigh. My mother and I used to call it the Mum's Sigh. The "I'm long suffering, pathetic, pity me, please let me die early - pay attention to me now" sigh. One day when I realized I was sighing like that on my own, in the privacy of my own home, I feared I was becoming one of them - of
them.
The Mums. The ones who want to die early, the ones with female pattern baldness, borne of stress, of bad marriages and looking like twenty miles of bad road. British road. That equates to at least double the distance in Texas.
If you come back here - to America - you can say you lived abroad, or you live abroad and the girl at the register in the card shop will either look at you with that semi-scared, disdainful look that says "why aren't my parents rich - the flesh is talking again." Or you'll get the five second "that's awesome, I love London" speech. The one that doesn't keep you warm at night - because everyone loves London, but to the average American, London encompasses all of Britain. You could tell them you lived in Northern Ireland and they'd ask you what part of London that's in. Then, you go back to being an American in America. A drop in an ocean.
I like to remember all the things I miss, the ones that make me ache inside. I miss the simplicity of British life when I'm in America. England is scheduled and straight. Things don't vary from routine. There are not so many variations that you feel diluted in your choices. When I'm in England I miss the simplicity of life in America. I miss roads that go through, thoroughfares. I miss straight lines and compasses that have true north, east, south and west. I miss food that makes sense and doesn't scare me (except commercial meat). I miss people at Starbucks who tell me the coffee is on them because there was a line and I had to wait 5 minutes (that happens to me about once a month here). In America, I miss (did I already mention fish and chips and mushy peas?) the weather -- yes, I am not joking or deluded. Fog, frizzy, insipid rain and cool wet suit me. I miss people who won't give you the time of day but when they decide to - you're in for life. I miss the straightforwardness. You don't have to guess when people don't like, or like you. I miss the high streets, Oxfam, pedestrianized districts, parking up and walking, trains. I miss never being more than an hour and a half from the beach.
Then, just to shake myself up, so whichever country I'm in I don't go to sleep with tears in my ears, I like to remind myself why I left.
I left Britain because the anti-semitism was too broadly spread and unacceptable to me. Because the Mumbai terrorists were homegrown, as were the London bombers. Because I can't handle the consequences of that, and driving through places like Keighley, saw letters 6ft long painted on the roads that said "Kill All Pakis."
Because people use expressions like 'Paki' in polite company and it turns my stomach. Because not everyone dark is "Asian."
Also because there is no service culture, by and large people don't care about you, or your custom. Because the place is filthy and even just driving people home from the airport was a source of embarrassment for me. Because if they get a chance to cheat you - they will, 9 times out of 10. But if you say that, everyone will act like you are the most horrid liar they've ever met. However, in a way that's to be admired, they have at least enough of a national identity to be defensive. Though, they themselves will complain - and vehemently - you aren't allowed to. Having said that, by and large their national image scares me. Patriotism means something else entirely. Most Americans don't realize that the flag that officially represents England is not the union jack, it is the cross of St. George: a blood-red cross on a white background. They equally don't realize that unless it's being displayed for an England vs international side football match, seeing the cross of St. George is a reason to go completely cold inside.
Because once I actually had an old man shout at me "You bloody foreigners, coming over here, marrying our men, diluting our bloodlines" and he wasn't joking. Because the island mentality is too much to handle. Because I couldn't get a job because America isn't part of the commonwealth and discrimination is so widely accepted that they could refuse to hire me based on the fact that they'd have to fill out an extra form. An extra form. All the weight, muscle and armor a xenophobe needs in Britain. By that token, making a living was impossible - at least over the table.
Because there were times when I was genuinely worried about being heard in an American accent. Because I had a little kid in a park spit at me and cuss me out while asking where my burka was. Because all of this tells of the free-floating hostility that I feel is dragging that country down.
The British love - LOVE - to bitch. They loved to shout and cuss - or as they say 'effing and blinding' - over any slight. However, you are absolutely not allowed at any time to fix the problem, see a solution to the problem, or discuss any possible way around the problem. The first time I fell for this, you know. I addressed a problem, I tried to form a group of people who cared. I went and confronted authority. I was abandoned by my group, and labeled a "rabblerouser." Yeah, I'm your classic rabblerouser all right.
My motto became, if it's broke don't fix it.
Me telling you all of this in public would probably get petrol pushed through my letter box in the middle of the night (even though it currently retails at around $8 a gallon). That was one of the other great mysteries of Britain to me. The absolute way that the rest of the world is to be kept in the dark about their problems. They can bitch about it to each other, but any media you get will be greatly dampened and toned down. For example, did you know during the worst of the winter last year, the councils decided they didn't have enough money to grit roads? So people were sliding about, having accidents, driving into each other, totaling cars and or just not able to drive at all. Even in places that quickly - and predictably - became impassable, the situation was not addressed. We never saw a mention of it. Our snowmageddon made their news though.
Did you know that there was a trash crisis there - not just Paris? The French bitched. The British swept it under the rug, as it were. The bins were being picked up once every 3 weeks, if even.
Britain is also classest and a bizarre dichotomy of sexes. Over here we are screwed up in many ways that they aren't. We're prudish due to our puritanical upbringing in ways they aren't. They are comfortable with their bodies and sexuality in a way we aren't. Breastfeeding is normal and acceptable. Children run naked on beaches, oblivious to the taboo.
However, I couldn't get anything done, ever, with any service people without my husband there. I was treated like I was stupid and a second-class citizen. On the other other hand though - they are far more accepting to gay and lesbian culture and unmarried partnerships. The same goes for dietary needs including vegetarianism. The vegetarian council will go so far as to put the equivalent of heschers on food so at a glance you know what is safe to eat if you are veggie.
The Jewish community is not so bold. They seem to be British first, Jewish second. They are far less comfortable with their Judaism than Israelis or Americans. You could get little 'v's for the Americans but there were no little 'k's in sight. Not all Americans, though, America seems to have invented and perfected the self-hating Jew image.
And yet, they have things like Jewish welfare boards and Jewish councils, and real, functional, Jewish schools.
The healthcare is so iffy. By and large I used to say you get what you pay for, and you pay nothing. I had a simple condition there that was treated so badly I ended up flying to America for 4 months until I was treated sufficiently to come home to Britain. The cancer death rates are much higher - but the maternal death rates lower. The waiting lists are years long for bypasses and the like, but the blacklists of drugs and the fact that someone else is paying for it mean that the big scary pharmaceutical companies are held at bay. From time to time I had what I was sure was superior care - that was the exception though.
Britain is simulatenously 20 years ahead, and behind. The banks still keep banking hours. The only way to do certain things is to come into a branch. The international banking departments of most banks are an utter joke. Banks and medical practices still use paper records.
The electronics are advanced, the education is advanced, the non-racial community funcionality is advanced. They aren't hung up about voting for women, they aren't afraid of gays, they accept a far wider variety of difference in the mix. Dealing with local governments, however, I felt truly helpless. I felt there was no recourse to take against ill treatment and there were times when I felt abused by the system because they knew there was no recourse. When the Home Office held my passport for 9 months over what turned out to be a clerical error, I never would have found out had I not thrown a fit over it. They warn you though, throwing a fit can get your application quietly murdered in the night. They have the right to arbitrarily refuse you for a good deal less than fit throwing. I was warned to not even call to check on status, lest it upset someone and cause them to push my application back. How is that even okay? My friend Mbula who was Malagasi, said they'd had her passport for nearly 15 years, her family had never met her children, she was statusless. She'd missed both her parents' funerals.
This caused me to have a nervous breakdown and pull my application and demand my passport back. Which is when they found my passport, on the wrong desk and the clerical error that had put it there. I never got an apology. The same happened when we applied for the family tax credit and were summarily denied because I had issues with their reporting. Later I found out - years later and thousands of lost tax dollars - that I should never have had to sit the interview. They have a policy to just check the social security number and my records with their American counterparts. I never got an apology. We were literally scoffed at when we asked about back-dating because of their error.
I used to hear about how "litigious" America is. This was said to me with derision. The above examples emphasize to me that our litigiousness is actually synonymous with progression.
In some ways we meet and are equal. Bullying is a problem everywhere. Neither place has the answer to universal health-care. The job market sucks across the board.
I miss the fruit markets there, I miss the organic grocery stores here. I miss the prevalence of innocent children's clothing there, I miss the variety of toys and games here. When I'm there I miss knowing where to go at 2am when your guinea pig cage breaks to bits and you desperately need a new one. When I'm here I miss knowing where to go at 2am when your guinea pig breaks and you don't want a new one. Did I mention the fact that animals are treated far better there?
And who wouldn't miss pikies? Who wouldn't miss being told that their children look like a pikey (I'm actually subbing words here) when they dressed themselves that morning in shorts and welly boots. Who wouldn't miss the occasional, bloated, upside down, dead pikey horse on your roundabout?
Then, after a while, my head starts to spin and I wonder if I'm going to live like this forever. In this weird whirlpool frame of mind. I get dizzy thinking of it all and I try hard
not to think about it. I can't have fish and chips - not for real. So I don't think of them. I push them away.
When I was in Britain I could imagine dying there. I used to say "I'll die in this place, I'll die a foreigner." However - the big however is, I could imagine it. We were happier there in many ways and we always said if we could make ourselves sustainable, if we had the money, we'd make our life there. I don't have that feeling here. I love the desert. I love the views. I love the way that life here is by and large much much easier. I do not, however, see myself here. I don't see myself a part of this place or a part of its history. I don't think of my children as New Mexican. Though I did think of them as British when we were in England. That's where I start to trip up. We talk about never going back, and being well rid of England. However, somewhere I can't get rid of the feeling that I did all that for nothing.
It's gone. An entire life was ephemeral and fleeting. How does that happen? It's like looking at ancient gravestones of people with which you are completely disassociated, having no idea what their lives could possibly be like outside of Hollywood portrayal of the times - but I'm sure they weren't sepia.
I look at our pictures of our entire life in England, my heart sinks. All that work for nothing. For what legacy? I broke the back of the damn place. I snapped it. I could speak the language. I could drive better than most people I knew. I wasn't afraid anymore. My children were cultured and darling. They had peaches and cream skin and adorable accents. I was next door to France and Holland and Ireland. I could spend any weekend my heart desired near water, or in Scotland. I saw basking sharks!
It's gone. It's gone and 4 years later - approaching my anniversary of re-patriating - I still feel vacant and hollow where it was. I still feel lonely. How can I feel lonely in my home country?
When I got back America had moved without me. Who could blame it? It had given up on me. The currency had changed its face, the people had invented a criminally insane political party, Fox had a news channel (heaven help me), and there were a dozen types of candy come and gone. The place was in love with itself and the newspapers showed narcissistic views of the nation - as though it were the only place that existed in reality. Having lived outside that reality for so long, I was irritated and found it immature.
It wasn't all bad though. Time and again I was affected by people's kindness. I'd missed kindness. I missed random strangers offering to help with flat tires and heavy bags. The entire adjustment process was hugely compounded by the fact that I myself felt like a stranger. I felt nationless - and yet I wasn't. My country wasn't gone - it hadn't changed names or been refounded or taken over. It was here. I was here in my homeland. I had changed. It felt as though I'd lived on an alien planet and my DNA had subtly shifted to accommodate the change - then I'd come home to realize I couldn't breath the oxygen any longer.
You know, like the phantom gear shift knob you grasp desperately for with your left hand. Or slamming on the brake whilst looking for the clutch. Or using the word whilst - and expecting people to know - what you mean.
Explaining to the doctor that it wasn't vertigo it was more like "falling down a lift shaft." Telling your neighbor the bin lorry was coming and did he want you to help him with his wheely bin? Pence/Cents.
4 years later and I'm still falling down the lift shaft which at this point is a euphemism for rabbit hole.
I don't know where I go from here. I know that it breaks my heart that when my husband was trying desperately to help me through my recovery process of late and he thought that something uplifting might heal my soul - in turn heal my body - he offered to go through pictures and pick out my favo(u)rites. He proposed we'd sit together at the kitchen table, with a cup of tea. We'll frame them for you, and put them around the bedroom, to make you better. Instead of saying - oh how lovely, my darling thank you. I just burst into tears and cried so hard I almost threw up. Hormones, eh? Yeah. That's how you get homesick for a foreign land. That's how.
Because I did work that hard at it. Because at the end of the day of speaking the foreign language they call English, I would come home and my head would pound and throb in fatigue from having had a hard day's translating. Because I finally freaking made friends I'd die for. Because I worked that hard to make it my home and because I never thought I'd see American soil again. So I pushed America away, and I made Britain my home. Because I saw myself there, old, with English grandchildren. I saw it. I saw it and it was real and now, where is it? Where are they? What the hell do I do now?
All I can think of this week, as I approach our anniversary or immigration/re-patriation is of Brigadoon.
My British life happened but it may as well not have. In turn that makes me feel less solid and even deluded about both my past and my current future. Everything is mutable, changeable, malleable, and losable. This compounded by the tough recovery I've had from this baby. I wonder if I'll ever feel "home" or "whole?"
This is only part of this story as well. It doesn't even cover the entire subject. There's more and there are bound to be more insipidly rainy posts on the subject. For now though, tara....
