I dreamed of living in the U.S. ever since my teenage years. For a year or two or five. Temporarily. For a while. I came here on numerous occasions in the past: to visit relatives or to stay with friends; I spent two years as a student on a US-government fellowship. I always felt comfortable and welcome. I would always leave energized and inspired, hoping to come back some time soon.
I married an American and our first stop was London. We lived there for almost five years, enjoying this incredible city, but nevertheless always treating it as a temporary destination. Once our daughter was born (you never treat the place you live in the same way again) we decided it was time to settle closer to at least one set of grandparents. We moved to New York – the city that I had always wanted to live in. But again, the city of dreams and aspirations proved to be a temporary stop. Two more moves and we finally settled in Princeton, an old (please remember that we are trying to adopt American standards in this blog) university town, nice, charming and interesting, about an hour drive from Manhattan.
So far so good.
We bought a house. I felt relieved. By that time my daughter had just started walking and I was very tired of moving and living out of boxes located amid IKEA furniture. “I am not moving around the corner,” I told my husband after counting that in the span of the previous nine years I had “relocated”12 times. For the first time in about two decades we were in a position to buy some nicer furniture (in the past, it always seemed there was no point acquiring anything we would feel attached to -- it would only make subsequent moves more difficult).
I always avoided the word “permanently” – save for your spouse (one would hope), family, perhaps a few close friends, our modern world does not lend itself easily to permanence. But I thought we would stay here for longer. Perhaps I could even say “for good”. It felt pretty good.
Until one day someone used the i-word...
Anxious about going back to work, I wanted some advice about how to navigate in the brave new world. “Give yourself some time” – I heard from a former journalist and a respected New York publisher. We were having lunch in a midtown sushi restaurant and he (having himself grown in a family of “relocated” Poles) must have sensed some frustration on my part. “It’s not easy to be an immigrant.”
A chunk of sashimi stalled in my throat. What did he say? An immigrant?!!!!
It suddenly dawned on me. Yes, I came here with a one-way ticket. This last trans-Atlantic crossing was different – this time, having unpacked, I discarded several dozen cardboard boxes (well, most of them…). It feels nice but there is a price tag attached. I am not “staying” here. I am not visiting. I live here. Forget about continuous tense. It’s Simple Present. There is this piece of inauspicious plastic, a card -- contrary to popular belief it is not green -- which I keep in my drawer (I was told to carry it with me at all times, but whoever came up with this idea couldn’t have realized how many times I have lost my IDs). It states as a matter of fact: permanent resident.
Day to day, and I do not think about it too much. But there are moments when it makes me feel uneasy. What does it mean to be a resident? And what does it mean to be permanent? Where do I belong?
I had never given much thought to the issue of immigration. Or if I did, it definitely did not relate to myself. And if I did, it involved new exciting possibilities, crossing boundaries in the good sense of the word – going forward, rising, aspiring. Isn’t it what we were conditioned to think about generations of immigrants who came to the US to build a better future for themselves, for the children and grandchildren? Who enriched this country and made it so wonderful? I believed it was one success story after another, wasn’t it?
It is not easy to be an immigrant. What did he mean? That I need to scale down my expectations? Slow down? Think down? Step down?
I struggle with these questions.
I definitely have slowed down. Having longed for some permanence, I now hope this slowdown is not permanent. I would like to step up and think up and speed up. And forget about the i-word. But I know I can't.
So I am trying (continuous tense :>) to come to terms with it. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
To Emigrate… or Immigrate?
Do we emigrate – or immigrate? And why do we still use a derivation from the Latin word MIGRARE, if it takes nothing more than an eight-hour-flight to move from one’s familiar home to one’s new – let’s say: place of residence? The fact that there is indeed a long distance to cover, and that leaving one’s home country means dealing with a lot of unexpected pains and difficulties, probably justifies the word anyway.
Although it does not seem quite clear at a first glance where the feelings of pain come from. After all, we are highly privileged emigrants, not driven by any substantial economic need, and many of the obstacles immigrants usually have to overcome were cordially removed by the very obliging Princeton University (my husband’s new employer). No need whatsoever to worry about moving expenses or the next paycheck, about affordable housing or health insurance for a family of four – i.e. a Professor of German (52), an economic correspondent of Agence France-Presse on maternal leave (myself, 42), and our two sons (7 and almost 2).
Also, we could never ever complain about not being warmly welcomed. There were new colleagues at the German Department who had filled our fridge to the brim with delicious food – including, of course, German bread – when we arrived. They continued to help out with uncounted loans like toasters and china, air beds and high chairs after we had moved into our empty new house in Princeton’s Hawthorne Avenue while our own furniture was still swimming on the Atlantic Ocean. There were our new neighbors who within three days brought us everything they considered vital for newcomers from far away - from homemade peach preserves to whole ensembles of gardening tools. One of our neighbors even hosted a welcome party for us and two other new families in the street.
Neither does the town of Princeton justify overwrought nerves and panic attacks – not even for dyed-in-the-wood fans of Berlin (Germany), who had only reluctantly left “their” city. Princeton, this upscale town, which still has a lively center and main street with small shops, cafés and restaurants, is very international and – as everybody keeps telling us – a great place to raise children. It’s safe and neat and green, there is a recycling bin for cans and glass as well as one for paper. Princeton is also ABSOLUTELY FREE OF DOG SHIT, because every dog owner carries plastic bags with him to dispose of the excrements. Some of them even apologize to passers-by for the offensive smell! (There surely are some rules and regulations for this in the state of New Jersey, but that shall be dealt with another time).
So what is it, then, that makes settling down in this new town and country so difficult? This question is still far from being definitely answered. But there already are a few “suspects”. There is, of course, our official status as “Non Resident Aliens” (the term itself gives me a headache), which doesn’t exactly encourage one to think of the US as “home”. But even more often it’s some trivial aspect of every day life that makes me wish to take the next flight home. Like: unfulfilled expectations regarding “the Americans”. Americans are polite, considerate drivers? Not in northern New Jersey. Here, motorists speed, tail gate and cut others almost as badly as on the notorious German “Autobahnen”. This had changed for a while after 9/11, my new hairdresser with the wonderful name Armida Bella tells me. Everyone suddenly drove carefully and let others go first. “This lasted for about six months,” she sighs. “Then it was exactly the same as before.” And I felt more than slightly offended that something I had considered to be an asset in my new life obviously wasn’t the case.
Apart from such rather minor irritations it is the constant necessity to prove one’s identity that strains nerves. Especially as one quickly realizes that rock-solid German documents like the EU passport count less in the US than, for example, an expired Iowa driver license, some US bank’s debit card or the informal computer print of a local property tax assessment. Therefore, the question: Who am I here, anyway? imposes itself on us over and over again. Although all we had asked for was a registration and title for the old Mercedes we bought on Ebay and had shipped here from Texas… Civil servants who insist on calling me “honey” don’t make things any better.
And then, last but not least, there is the language that we had thought to manage well enough. Our English may be not as good as it could be for working as a university professor or as a journalist considering to write for American media in the future, but for everyday life it was definitely sufficient – or so we thought. After some phone calls to the call centers of authorities, insurance companies or other businesses, we are less sure about that. Employees of call centers, who even after the third I-beg-your-pardon only repeat exactly the same sentence for the third time in exactly the same machine gun speed, quickly shattered our self-confidence in this field. That one has to listen to – and understand - a dozen different accents of immigrants from all over the world within a few hours doesn’t make it any easier, of course. And as this is not about some weeks of vacation or internship, some month of research or being a visiting professor for one semester, we are rankling with it.
To look at the positive side for once: A good part of our lives and selves is with us again, namely our household goods and other belongings. I had never expected that feeling “at home” depended so much on THINGS one is used to! Olive soap bars from the Berlin drugstore, our pots and pans made in Germany, and the antique wardrobe inherited from Grandma that three friendly Ecuadorian furniture packers put together rather with their last ounce of strength than with a sense for old European craftsmanship – we just love to have them back! Only in one sense did we Americanize ourselves quickly and without a trace of regret: Our new bed says goodbye to the principle of sleeping close to the floor – which is still cherished in Germany – in favor of a more manageable height. And after almost four weeks of sleeping on air mattresses it is a REVELATION!
(U.)
Although it does not seem quite clear at a first glance where the feelings of pain come from. After all, we are highly privileged emigrants, not driven by any substantial economic need, and many of the obstacles immigrants usually have to overcome were cordially removed by the very obliging Princeton University (my husband’s new employer). No need whatsoever to worry about moving expenses or the next paycheck, about affordable housing or health insurance for a family of four – i.e. a Professor of German (52), an economic correspondent of Agence France-Presse on maternal leave (myself, 42), and our two sons (7 and almost 2).
Also, we could never ever complain about not being warmly welcomed. There were new colleagues at the German Department who had filled our fridge to the brim with delicious food – including, of course, German bread – when we arrived. They continued to help out with uncounted loans like toasters and china, air beds and high chairs after we had moved into our empty new house in Princeton’s Hawthorne Avenue while our own furniture was still swimming on the Atlantic Ocean. There were our new neighbors who within three days brought us everything they considered vital for newcomers from far away - from homemade peach preserves to whole ensembles of gardening tools. One of our neighbors even hosted a welcome party for us and two other new families in the street.
Neither does the town of Princeton justify overwrought nerves and panic attacks – not even for dyed-in-the-wood fans of Berlin (Germany), who had only reluctantly left “their” city. Princeton, this upscale town, which still has a lively center and main street with small shops, cafés and restaurants, is very international and – as everybody keeps telling us – a great place to raise children. It’s safe and neat and green, there is a recycling bin for cans and glass as well as one for paper. Princeton is also ABSOLUTELY FREE OF DOG SHIT, because every dog owner carries plastic bags with him to dispose of the excrements. Some of them even apologize to passers-by for the offensive smell! (There surely are some rules and regulations for this in the state of New Jersey, but that shall be dealt with another time).
So what is it, then, that makes settling down in this new town and country so difficult? This question is still far from being definitely answered. But there already are a few “suspects”. There is, of course, our official status as “Non Resident Aliens” (the term itself gives me a headache), which doesn’t exactly encourage one to think of the US as “home”. But even more often it’s some trivial aspect of every day life that makes me wish to take the next flight home. Like: unfulfilled expectations regarding “the Americans”. Americans are polite, considerate drivers? Not in northern New Jersey. Here, motorists speed, tail gate and cut others almost as badly as on the notorious German “Autobahnen”. This had changed for a while after 9/11, my new hairdresser with the wonderful name Armida Bella tells me. Everyone suddenly drove carefully and let others go first. “This lasted for about six months,” she sighs. “Then it was exactly the same as before.” And I felt more than slightly offended that something I had considered to be an asset in my new life obviously wasn’t the case.
Apart from such rather minor irritations it is the constant necessity to prove one’s identity that strains nerves. Especially as one quickly realizes that rock-solid German documents like the EU passport count less in the US than, for example, an expired Iowa driver license, some US bank’s debit card or the informal computer print of a local property tax assessment. Therefore, the question: Who am I here, anyway? imposes itself on us over and over again. Although all we had asked for was a registration and title for the old Mercedes we bought on Ebay and had shipped here from Texas… Civil servants who insist on calling me “honey” don’t make things any better.
And then, last but not least, there is the language that we had thought to manage well enough. Our English may be not as good as it could be for working as a university professor or as a journalist considering to write for American media in the future, but for everyday life it was definitely sufficient – or so we thought. After some phone calls to the call centers of authorities, insurance companies or other businesses, we are less sure about that. Employees of call centers, who even after the third I-beg-your-pardon only repeat exactly the same sentence for the third time in exactly the same machine gun speed, quickly shattered our self-confidence in this field. That one has to listen to – and understand - a dozen different accents of immigrants from all over the world within a few hours doesn’t make it any easier, of course. And as this is not about some weeks of vacation or internship, some month of research or being a visiting professor for one semester, we are rankling with it.
To look at the positive side for once: A good part of our lives and selves is with us again, namely our household goods and other belongings. I had never expected that feeling “at home” depended so much on THINGS one is used to! Olive soap bars from the Berlin drugstore, our pots and pans made in Germany, and the antique wardrobe inherited from Grandma that three friendly Ecuadorian furniture packers put together rather with their last ounce of strength than with a sense for old European craftsmanship – we just love to have them back! Only in one sense did we Americanize ourselves quickly and without a trace of regret: Our new bed says goodbye to the principle of sleeping close to the floor – which is still cherished in Germany – in favor of a more manageable height. And after almost four weeks of sleeping on air mattresses it is a REVELATION!
(U.)
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