That I am an American has never been in question. I need only open my mouth and — if you are a Brit — you will recognise the fact immediately. If you are an American… well, twenty years ago you would have known right away — these days, you might be a wee bit confused. But I was born here and grew up here, and — though I know am fully British as well (not half-and-half, but whole-and-whole) — my Americanness is not in question.
And yet my being American is just an accident of birth. My parents, both Brits, were here only temporarily when I was born, working in the States for a few years — so the plan went — before moving back. My father’s sudden death turned all that on its head and I ended up growing here… ended up an American. And yet, if we had stayed in the UK and hadn’t moved back to the US last year, that fact would have become only an anomalous blip in a long and continuous line of Britishness: my parents and grandparents and all my ancestors completely British, my children and all my decedents just as British as well. Indeed, when we go back to the UK, that will be the case again. Pulling back and looking at it from afar, these two quick forays into America will become mere interludes in a long line — generations — of otherwise unbroken Britishness.
And that feels so very strange to me, because my Americanness is such a big part — such a real part — of who I am. It’s really quite startling to think of it as an accident, as a blip…
We are going back — that is decided. We knew it the morning before we left. We both agreed on it a few months after we moved here. We have been looking forward to it, and I have waxed lyrical here on my blog about it. We are both quite settled. We will all be Brits once again.
Imagine my surprise then when… well, let me explain…
I was watching one of my favourite telly programmes — this was a couple of weeks ago, M had just got home from his trip to England. It’s a property programme, a bit of eye candy, in which two experts guide househunters to their dream home. I always watch it with a mix of excitement, jealousy, despair, and irritation. The houses are interesting — the voyeurism is too — but the prices are ever eye-watering. The house we bought here in the US would cost us five times as much in the UK. And yet, their budget is always astronomical. Where do these people get their money?!? It intrigues me, frustrates me — I can’t help but watch.
But as I watched it the other week, the sensation was strange, less voyeur and more uncomfortable than usual. I was thinking about going home, thinking too much. How will we ever move back? The figures never add up — even a two-up, two-down terrace in a questionable area of town seems beyond our means, and it always depresses me. But there was more to it today… the sensation was strange…
And then the surprise, a quiet voice in my head: I don’t want to go back.
I stopped dead at that — every thought stopped as my brain tried to comprehend what it had just heard. It had not been expected, not even suspected. Had I really said that…? Why would I not want to go back…?!? I know I want to! I didn’t believe it… it’s not true! And yet… and yet… I knew right away that it is true, at least in a little.
I’ve been thinking about it ever since, rolling that quiet statement around in my mind and trying to make it balance with all the other feelings I hold. And I think I understand. Our first year here was rough — we were fighting fires almost from the moment we arrived and we had hardly a moment to draw breath. But, though we are still fighting a few fires even now, things have begun to slow down considerably. There’s been a bit more time to to sit and relax, to enjoy the warm air of the summer, to go out and see a bit of the world… to see a bit of America.
And I am beginning to remember what is wonderful about America. We have been to fibre festivals, and driven through mountains and farmland and small towns to get there. We have gone to lovely state parks, with deep woods and vast lakes, and sat in the sun watching the light dance across the water. We have had dinner at grand and historic inns that sing out the vibrant history of the country. We went to Gettysburg, and the place affected me profoundly, stopped my heart. These past few months, I have seen the America that I had remembered, the America that I had hoped for. These past few months, I have begun to fall in love.
But the problem is that when I say “we”, I mean my mother and I, with the girls. The fibre festivals were daytrips during the week; the state park was a Tuesday with some old family friends; Gettysburg was a quick break while M was in England. My mother is so excited to have her daughter and grandchildren nearby, and she delights in taking us away like that. M and I don’t have the money for getaways or dinner on our own — he toils away at work all week, and sees the same city neighbourhoods day after day, and then our weekends are spent at home, busy with domestic chores and conserving our pennies. In the year-and-a-half that we’ve lived here, he’s got away for one weekend: it was a fibre festival that, yes, was set in some beautiful countryside but, to be honest, it’s quite possible he was too bored to notice it.
So we’ve been going on separate emotional journeys, he and I. I have been discovering what there is to love — and loving it. And he has been seeing exactly the same thing he’s seen since the day he arrived: the same dirty city from the same van, doing the same dirty jobs in the same dodgy neighbourhoods. He is not much impressed and wants to go home; I am being a surprised by that quiet voice in my head.
I’ve been honest with him about: told him about the voice, told him my feelings. “We need to make sure we go on the same journey,” I said. “When it comes time to go home, we need to have shared this, so we understand each other’s feelings.” He agreed with a grunt. But so far, we haven’t. This weekend, I will take E1 to her tennis lesson while M works on the furnace. Next weekend, he is working. Perhaps in October… I want so much to take him to Gettysburg… and there’s another festival in New York, through some beautiful Pennsylvania countryside. Oh, but the money… the money!
Money or not, I have to make this happen. He has to get away — heaven knows he needs the break, and he needs to see America too. But most of all, he and I must — absolutely must — go on this journey together, the same emotional journey. Because when we do move back to the UK, and I do say goodbye to America… my America… I will need him to understand what I am leaving.
Stumble it!
Oh, how I identify with what you’ve said, but from the opposite place! I came to the UK having seen more of the country as a visitor than my British husband ever has! He still sometimes fails to see the beauty of his own country, even though he KNOWS how beautiful it all is…I’ve made great efforts to share my forays with him, those little day trips I’ve taken while he’s at work, just the same kind of stuff you’ve been doing. He says he hates it in the UK, but what he really hates is big city life, which he has lived most of his life. And it is more difficult in the UK, IMO, to afford to live in a smaller town than it is in at least certain parts of the US.
I love that eye candy on telly – don’t know if you’re talking about Phil and Kirsty or Lucy and Martin, or someone else. I always get a kick out of the spoiled brats in Escape to the Country who have these budgets of £3 or £4 hundred thousand and then don’t want to buy what I think is a fantastic place because they don’t like the colour of the kitchen or some such thing!
Poor babies.
Anyway, I think you’re on the right path – he needs to somehow find the time to see some of the beautiful places in the country he’s in…you may still end up moving back to England, but it would be a shame if he missed seeing that while there is an opportunity so to do.
The life of an expat/repat is so complex. I hope you enjoy your journey together and find some answers. The real reason for leaving a comment is to say that Phillygirl and I went to see the movie, Julie & Julia and I think must go and see it or at least see it when it comes out on DVD. It’s all about a blogger who ends up writing books.
Funny enough, after 3 yrs of just wanting to go home, I heard myself say “I am home” I desire to move back to the US is getting less and less as each day goes by. We can not afford it. I really feel our chance past us by, but honestly, I dont desire it anymore. Nothing has taken me more by surprise then that.
I’ve always felt like it’s having one leg in each country,
Both have a place in my heart, I have to keep reminding myself that.
Wouldn’t it be lovely to just drive home over the weekend ?
I don’t blame you at all for wanting to share the journey. Because you’re right, it is very important.
I was lucky in that when we were living in the States my husband fell in love with (or at least tolerated) many aspects of life there and traveled around a bit. He got into American sports, made American friends and got to know and appreciate the traditions. And this was after we’d agreed to move back to the UK shortly after arriving in America, much like you and M. The fact that he knows how the NFL draft works, and what goes in green bean casserole for Thanksgiving, and has a better understanding of pop culture references than the average Brit would know means the world to me. Just being with him feels like ‘home’, even when home is Britain and probably always will be.
Find the money and a way to give him a taste of that. I don’t think either of you will regret it.
I’ve lived in the US for 5 years. I longed to return to the UK for the first 2 or 3 years, but becoming a citizen and shedding the yoke of the US immigration service helped a lot. I still have pangs of homesickness for England, but I feel pretty sure that if, by some miracle I could return, with my American husband – to live there permanently, I’d want to be back in the USA after a couple of months.
I recall long ago chatting to an English gal living in the Canary Islands about what it was like for her to be an ex-pat. She told me that she was able to go back and forth with relative ease, but that whichever place was her home at any one time, she always longed to be back in the other place. I can now relate to this, in theory.
It’s probably all part of our peculiar human condition.
Josh and I are at opposite ends, only I want to go back so bad and he wants to stay. We will never go back, I know. I thought the feeling would fade shortly, but I think a huge part of the reason I want to go back is that I still don’t feel like we have settled in here. I am struggling with work and we never have time off to go anywhere. We still don’t have a church or friends after more than 2 years. Most of our free time is spent getting things done around the house and we are hardly even home together. It is a treat when we actually get to do something together. It just feels like a huge struggle here with hardly any benefit. So I totally understand. I really hope M can get a good group of friends and can enjoy life here.
As far as getting out, it sounds crazy but you could try mystery shopping. It would probably take a while to work your way into getting travel shops, but I think you have what it takes to get those kinds of shops. Even just the restaurant shops would be nice free dates. Or maybe try to get a position with a paper as a travel writer?