I was indeed born in the USA, as was my daughter, though she
has the added dimension of also being half-Belgian, and by extension, for the
time being (meaning the fate of the EU that is), European. Both are something
that some may forever see as a boon and/or a bane, a blessing and/or a curse.
For my own case, I have experienced both sides, being the
recipient and the progenitor of vitriolic effusions about my homeland, but on
the flipside, have also over Time, and as a result of extended travel to other
ports of call around the world, have also respected and admired the uniqueness of
a country like the USA and likewise defended it tooth and nail at times when I
realized an antagonist knew next to nothing about my country. It is not an
exaggeration to say that no other country on this planet has existed as such,
nor will. Like it or not, the USA is something special. That is not out of
grandiosity or patriotism, but rather from my own experience.
Before I traveled extensively, as I have done in the past
quarter of a century, I was, however, rather naïve and “patriotic” about
America (and yes, I fully understand and respect the various Americas such as northern North (Canada), Central and
South, but for convenience sake, I speak now of America, the 48 contiguous
states and the final two stars on the flag, Alaska and Hawai'i). But, when the rest of the world speaks about Americans, they usually
are referring to those of us from the US.
When I first truly went abroad, when my sister married her
first husband in Scotland, I landed on the parallel universe of the Plymouth
Rock of my ancestors, that is, Victoria Station in London. I will never forget
the ensuing rush of emotions and confusion and fascination that raced through
my mind. I had re-arrived… My ex-wife often described a similar experience when
she arrived in JFK for an AFS year abroad experience. Even if we do not land in
the same place, it is interesting to know that we often can feel more at home
in a completely foreign culture than the one we have grown up in., whether we
are from there or not
Such was the case, and such, such were the days.
Over the years, if nothing else, I have gained new
perspectives on being American and not-being American, and the middle road of
just Be-ing me. It is a process and a journey, about which I have written,
photographed, talked, listened, and just sat, thinking about.
The issue of my daughter’s own mixed heritage came up front
and center as we flew into Brussels yesterday and were greeted in a very
unfriendly manner at Immigration because we were only traveling with her US
passport and not her Belgian one as well. She has made this trip nearly a dozen
times in her young life already and nearly half of them alone with me and this
was never an issue, until this individual made it so. The frustration lay not
in the fact that we were accosted, but the way he spoke to us as “Americans”
who just thought that we could waltz into Belgium. Well, I pay Belgian taxes
and have paid my dues otherwise, so it rang very falsely in my ears.
But, I am also aware of the enormous struggles of
Immigration from people going into the US as well, most directly my ex-wife,
who is Belgian and my dear friend who is Colombian by birth and the trials and
tribulations her family experienced over the years.
It is a tricky thing, the place where one is born and what “nationality”
one actual is. For now, my daughter fits in perfectly in America as an
American, speaking American English, but the second she sets foot in Belgium,
she is “European” and speaks fluent Flemish. I have never had that luxury as
all of the languages I have studied have been constant efforts and consequently
I am perennially the “foreigner.”
Our language, our mannerisms, our political views, our
religions convictions, our food habits, ways of dress, thoughts on sex,
thoughts on marriage, thoughts on cultural heritage, views of family
structures, economic situations, and countless other things all add up to the
calculus of who we are and where we “fit in” or don’t
For me, I was indeed born an American, though in a Native
American hospital, the one white baby in there at the time, from what I have
been told and perhaps from the beginning at times I have been the odd one out.
Going back and forth from the US to Europe and recently India provides me each
time with a new perspective, both about the boons and the banes, and everything
in between.
