Time can do so much
It's a gorgeous day today.
I'm glad it is, because it has been a rather gloomy week emotionally with the looming milestone of my first six months as an immigrant this Wednesday. I have ached for all of the family held dear only from the depths of my heart, and for some reason it has been the feeling of their hugs in particular that is such a unique feeling to each of them that no one could duplicate. I'm in a job that does not bring me a sense of challenge or enjoyment, and I miss the colleagues and cohorts I worked with back in Rochester.
Thankfully, things are looking up.
We are getting broadband installed this week, which should make sketchy internet connections a thing of the past.
Plans for a November visit are solidifying into a two-week American holiday adventure.
And best of all, I met and befriended the first Yankee who knows exactly what I'm going through.
I walked down to the local pub to watch yesterday's World Cup match of USA v. Ghana, and I admit that I was feeling rather nervous. Either I would be heckled as the only American, or I would have to be bold enough to introduce myself to anyone else who might share my citizenship.
I decided to put on my brave face and thought, "Tsch, I'm AMERICAN. We don't have to be nervous about being proud of who we are, despite the nationalistic obsession that the English have over their team during this tournament. If my family has signed up to risk their lives to defend that country, I certainly cannot dishonor their courage."
I stood in line to buy myself a drink before the match, and a tall gentleman asked me, "Is this the end of the queue?"
All I could think was making sure I was there for the singing of the national anthem before kickoff. I murmured, "I think so, I only just arrived."
From that he could deduce that I had an accent, and I divulged that yes, it was American.
"HEY, boys! Check it out, there's a Yank over here!"
Yes, very good, I thought sarcastically as I rolled my eyes as soon as they turned to each other.
For the next 20 minutes or so, they bantered on about how we bomb everything to get our way, how we're all flag waving patriots (so?! Yes, I brought my flag in my handbag...they do the same?!), and other mockery I know I have to get used to over here. I often get this sense that there is both a contempt and odd admiration of American culture, and many of the jokes and teasing I get stems from those attitudes.
But I didn't let it go on for long. I stared them all down and said sarcastically, "Look, guys, if it will shut you up, I'll break out my flag for this match." They laughed, and the mocking stopped.
That's when I looked at the table across from me and saw a man with a Cleveland Indians baseball t-shirt and figured they must have been here to support the USA, too. Someone noted that the woman accompanying him (who turned out to be his wife), originated from Ohio. I introduced myself and noted that I moved here only six months ago and she was the first American I had the chance to meet.
Becky came here 15 years ago and now has a son. She mentioned that the only other one in our area who she knew about happened to be the wife of the newly-elected MP for our township (which amused me). Becky lives in the same village as we do, so it was really great to know I can have a commiserator so closeby.
We watched the match from separate tables, but made eye contact every time the game went our way. It was nice to have most of the Englishmen around rooting for us, too. The tense game went into overtime, but they had to leave because it was past their son's bed time. Before they left, Becky came over to comfort me by saying, "The first year is definitely the hardest. Get through that, and it gets easier."
The weight I had been carrying on my shoulders all week suddenly lifted.
That was what I needed to hear, and it could not have come from anyone else to be believable.
I mentioned that my first fourth of July celebration outside of America seemed completely dire in light of celebrating it in a country where (1) they barely even knew Americans had a war for independence because their history lessons spanned such a long period of time and (2) they have never had a war for independence. It is virtually meaningless to them. They don't even have a real national holiday (other than their patron saint day, but little more is done than flying the flag of their nation for one day).
Contrast that to a typical Independence Day in the States, the way my family celebrates it.
But now, I have an ally in a woman I barely know. She's likely to understand those traditions and have that same fire burning in her heart on even a subdued level after being here for so long. But she'll get it.
And for me, during a time when I'm feeling desperate for someone to understand these struggles, she is a godsend.
Now this week can get better.
I'm glad it is, because it has been a rather gloomy week emotionally with the looming milestone of my first six months as an immigrant this Wednesday. I have ached for all of the family held dear only from the depths of my heart, and for some reason it has been the feeling of their hugs in particular that is such a unique feeling to each of them that no one could duplicate. I'm in a job that does not bring me a sense of challenge or enjoyment, and I miss the colleagues and cohorts I worked with back in Rochester.
Thankfully, things are looking up.
We are getting broadband installed this week, which should make sketchy internet connections a thing of the past.
Plans for a November visit are solidifying into a two-week American holiday adventure.
And best of all, I met and befriended the first Yankee who knows exactly what I'm going through.
I walked down to the local pub to watch yesterday's World Cup match of USA v. Ghana, and I admit that I was feeling rather nervous. Either I would be heckled as the only American, or I would have to be bold enough to introduce myself to anyone else who might share my citizenship.
I decided to put on my brave face and thought, "Tsch, I'm AMERICAN. We don't have to be nervous about being proud of who we are, despite the nationalistic obsession that the English have over their team during this tournament. If my family has signed up to risk their lives to defend that country, I certainly cannot dishonor their courage."
I stood in line to buy myself a drink before the match, and a tall gentleman asked me, "Is this the end of the queue?"
All I could think was making sure I was there for the singing of the national anthem before kickoff. I murmured, "I think so, I only just arrived."
From that he could deduce that I had an accent, and I divulged that yes, it was American.
"HEY, boys! Check it out, there's a Yank over here!"
Yes, very good, I thought sarcastically as I rolled my eyes as soon as they turned to each other.
For the next 20 minutes or so, they bantered on about how we bomb everything to get our way, how we're all flag waving patriots (so?! Yes, I brought my flag in my handbag...they do the same?!), and other mockery I know I have to get used to over here. I often get this sense that there is both a contempt and odd admiration of American culture, and many of the jokes and teasing I get stems from those attitudes.
But I didn't let it go on for long. I stared them all down and said sarcastically, "Look, guys, if it will shut you up, I'll break out my flag for this match." They laughed, and the mocking stopped.
That's when I looked at the table across from me and saw a man with a Cleveland Indians baseball t-shirt and figured they must have been here to support the USA, too. Someone noted that the woman accompanying him (who turned out to be his wife), originated from Ohio. I introduced myself and noted that I moved here only six months ago and she was the first American I had the chance to meet.
Becky came here 15 years ago and now has a son. She mentioned that the only other one in our area who she knew about happened to be the wife of the newly-elected MP for our township (which amused me). Becky lives in the same village as we do, so it was really great to know I can have a commiserator so closeby.
We watched the match from separate tables, but made eye contact every time the game went our way. It was nice to have most of the Englishmen around rooting for us, too. The tense game went into overtime, but they had to leave because it was past their son's bed time. Before they left, Becky came over to comfort me by saying, "The first year is definitely the hardest. Get through that, and it gets easier."
The weight I had been carrying on my shoulders all week suddenly lifted.
That was what I needed to hear, and it could not have come from anyone else to be believable.
I mentioned that my first fourth of July celebration outside of America seemed completely dire in light of celebrating it in a country where (1) they barely even knew Americans had a war for independence because their history lessons spanned such a long period of time and (2) they have never had a war for independence. It is virtually meaningless to them. They don't even have a real national holiday (other than their patron saint day, but little more is done than flying the flag of their nation for one day).
Contrast that to a typical Independence Day in the States, the way my family celebrates it.
- Day off from work, regardless of whether the holiday falls on a weekend. I would probably safely say that more people have off from work for July 4th than Labour Day.
- Fireworks. Everywhere.
- Flags flown from every street and embroidered on hundreds of t-shirts.
- Families and friends getting together for hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill.
- A moment or two of reflection on all the reasons we love our country.
- A day in the park, where patriotic music plays and brings tears to the eyes of veterans and joy to so many others.
- A holiday so intrinsic to the culture that it is the only holiday celebrated by everyone, of every ethnicity, religion, and political origin. You can celebrate it with cultural enemies and not even know it, because it doesn't matter.
But now, I have an ally in a woman I barely know. She's likely to understand those traditions and have that same fire burning in her heart on even a subdued level after being here for so long. But she'll get it.
And for me, during a time when I'm feeling desperate for someone to understand these struggles, she is a godsend.
Now this week can get better.