Life as a Gazelle

One of my fondest memories as a child is leaping through the countryside behind our California foothill home pretending I was a gazelle or another lightfooted animal from the African plains. I can still remember what it felt like to imagine I was in that far-off land, the air blowing against my face and the long grasses brushing against my shins as I leapt and bounded.

My thoughts of all things African really came to fruition after my family invited a man from Africa to visit us in our home. I have no idea from which country he came but I can still remember his dark chocolate skin and beautiful accent. His eyes were dazzling and concentrated. He listened carefully to every word and replied deliberately and warmly.

I realized then that there was something much bigger out there than I had ever before imagined. An expanse beyond what I had ever contemplated and which National Geographic documentaries couldn't come close to capturing. It was then that I told my mother I would one day visit Africa. And, as would be expected, to bide the time I became a gazelle.

There is something magical about meeting people from other countries, especially when you are a child. As a child our world seems so clearly defined and most of the time we know what to expect. We have a fairly good idea of how each day will progress and picture books are the limits of our worldly exporations. But when we first meet that person with the gloriously different accent who acts and dresses and behaves so differently, we stand in awe, amazed by this encapsulation of a new culture before us.

This simple act can change the life of a child forever. As parents, it must be our job to help provide our children with profoundly awe-inspiring moments in their lives so that they will expect no less as they grow older, so that their curiosity and craving to explore the world will continue to flourish and blossom.

Many years later, with the Cold War at its height and movies about Russians and Americans fighting or falling in love filling our minds, I was certain that I'd visit Russia, meet the love of my life and we'd be married. I told my mother as much: "You know, Mom, I'm going to marry a Russian someday." "Sure, ok," she'd answer. "No, Mom, I really mean it, honestly!" I'd repeat.

Well, my life moved on, I went to college and then Ireland and in the end I didn't marry my Russian, and I haven't even visited Russia (yet), but I did marry a man from another land, another culture, Germany, and I can't imagine wanting it to be any other way.

Returning Home

As we all know and have experienced, living in another country changes you forever. You will never be the same and will never see things the same way again. I once mentioned this to a friend after living in Ireland for a year. She responded, “oh come on, don’t be so depressing”. But whether it is a depressing reality or not, for those of us who have lived abroad, this is simply the way it is.

The first time I experienced what experts call “Reverse Culture Shock” was after returning from a Year Abroad Program in Ireland. My home town, which often gave me a sense of comfort, upon returning seemed stifling and bereft of warmth. I moved about my days feeling that something was missing but no idea what it could be. Eventually I came face to face with the reality that my home would never, ever again feel the same as it had before. I sealed my fate as soon as I boarded that plane the year before.

I don’t think there is really any way to describe this feeling to those who haven’t experienced it themselves. What is it exactly that causes us to feel this way? Why is it more pronounced when living in a different country than just living in a different city? Does the degree of difference between our home country and the target country determine the level of change we will feel when returning?

Many descriptions of Reverse Culture Shock describe it as part of a continuum whereby eventually we’ll feel at home again in the US and the vestiges of the “shock” will have slowly worn off. Although it is true that the initial feelings of strangeness have subsided, I still feel that something will never be the same even now, so many years later. What I constantly contend with now is a continual pull to go back… go back anywhere as long as it isn’t here. Yet when I am back there, I feel the pull to return back here. It is as if I am living in a kind of suspended reality, never really here or there.

The joy of having spent time in another country is that you slowly become a part of it and one of its people. Our attention to detail is heightened and we make a concerted effort to understand and fit in until we become one with our new location. What I have seen and felt and heard and smelled in each of the places I have lived has made me who I am, like a wine picking up its surrounding elements.

I would never want the clocks to be turned back to the person I was before I set foot on that first airplane. Instead, what I want more than anything is to have my favorite elements from each country right here with me now. I want to have an Irish pub around the corner here in Seattle, full of Irish laughter and music and incessant chatter. I crave the smell of peat burning in the air and the Irish lilt.

But I can’t stop there… I want to have my favorites from Germany and France with me here as well and of course the Australian joviality and Tasmanian kindness. I want to somehow piece them all together into a quilt of my making and to wear it day in and day out to bring me comfort.

Ultimately what I have lost in hometown comfort I have gained in international comfort. Where once boarding an airplane was an amazing feat and arriving in another country 10 hours later unthinkable, I now feel a sense of familiarity when we are snuggled down into our seats for our long flight. I have a pretty good idea of the sequence of events whereby we will get from here to there and cherish the chance to head to my “other home” of Germany for an extended visit. And once there for a while, I can’t wait to snuggle back into my bed in my home in the US.

This first appeared as an essay in our February newsletter: www.biculturalfamily.org/newsletterfeb06.html

Getting Started

I guess it is time that I get on board and join the blogging world. Dear friends and cyper-acquaintances, please bear with me while I figure this all out. I still want to post anything bilingual or bicultural related to the BBFN homepage but here is where I hope to post those plus everything else. So much to say and no place to say it.