Monday, March 17, 2014

Ex-pat life: The in-betweeners

When I moved to London, I proudly proclaimed to anyone within earshot how happy I was to be American and how much I missed home. America, after all, runs through my veins. When talking about Michigan, I sounded like one of those annoying 'Pure Michigan' commercials I couldn't stand, oozing poetic statements about my homeland. Everything about my Michigan roots clung to me and I was determined to be a proud American up until my last breath. When my husband's friends joked to me that I was now British, everything 'American' about me became amplified to the highest degree. I wasn't going to assimilate, I would never be British, and I was determined to constantly look back at the life I left behind with pride, telling myself repeatedly that England could never compete with my Metro-Detroit upbringing.

It has been seven months since I unpacked my bags and settled into the house I am beginning - albeit, with the occasional reservation - to call a home. I have embraced trading my beloved Honda Civic for the tube and find myself beaming with joy when I can direct myself home without help. Where once I spent my time mourning the loss of my home and my friends, I began exploring museums, toasting my new life with new friends, crossing things to do and places to see off my list. My husband and I have begun renovating our house, a project that has been moving slowly, but surely, for the past five months. The empty shell this house once was is now becoming a place I can identify with, my books now placed on its shelves, photos in frames and favorite foods in the fridge. I have, in my own way, begun to put my roots down in a country that I have, at times, struggled to grasp.

My life is all about succumbing to new experiences, for better or worse. The sun is shining in London and my life seems to finally be settling down, but when I go to bed at night, no matter how happy I've felt, I struggle with one truth: I will always, for the rest of my life, be in-between.

When I moved here, I was in constant contact with loved ones back in the states. Now, I find it challenging to be in touch, even to the point of feeling guilty about being too busy (or even happy), knowing the heartache my departure has caused. I have begun to make friends here and when I finally feel like things are improving, I find myself broken up about missing nights out and special occasions back home. Worse, I often feel bad about admitting to the friends I've had for decades that I am making new friends that I occasionally identify with better, as most of them are fellow ex-pats trying to navigate the difficult course of moving across an ocean. The more I study British holidays and traditions, the more I question if I will ever be happy without Thanksgiving dinner, green beer on St. Patrick's Day and eating paczi after paczi on Fat Tuesday. The more I begin to refer to this place as home, the more it feels like a half-truth as I remember the house I grew up in and lived in until my late twenties. I know, with a heavy heart, that when I go to see my family in Michigan, I will miss London. When I am in London, I will wish I were in Michigan.

These facts may be easier to adjust to, but will never wither away completely. I will always be in-between Michigan and London, never truly belonging to one place or the other, never knowing fully where my home is. My identity was once finite, now I wonder where I stand. I know no matter how much I adapt, the feeling that I will never really belong in either place will linger...and that is the burden, the cost, of being an ex-pat. All I can do is try to be happy on the thin red line that I'm standing on. 

1 comment:

  1. This happens even if you move back to the US. I found myself telling everyone how much I missed London after we moved back, and even 5 years on the feelings haven't gone away. It is totally the burden of being an expat!

    ReplyDelete