An expat in Texan clothing
Greg Gangelhoff
Issue date: 11/30/05 Section: Commentary
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I lived overseas for thirteen years, mostly in Southeast Asia. I met Mr. UPenn in Jakarta and we keep in touch even though I went to high school in that Asian region known as Texas.
After a few pleasantries, the topic eventually shifted to women - we're men, what do you expect? My friend told me he's seeing a girl, and that they 'hooked up' a few times. When I pressed him as to whether this made the hooked-up lady his girlfriend, he retorted, "You Americans have a weird conception of relationships. In Jakarta, you start seeing a girl if you like her, but you're not immediately bound to her. Americans get so caught up in becoming officially dating."
I was taken aback. Why was I suddenly "American" when I spent the majority of my pre-college life outside of the United States? Although I was never infatuated with the more freewheeling, boozier and, dare I say it, European aspects of the overseas community, I still considered myself part of that culture.
I realized that I had just experienced what all expatriates experience: culture shock. Only this time it was from the expatriate culture that I considered myself a member of. My conversation with Mr. UPenn made me reflect on that segment of my life, especially since I now attend a global university institution.
For me, expatriate life is possibly the most bittersweet experience one can have. Whether you're a "faux international" - an American who spent time abroad - or a "full international," the symptoms of expatriate life are all the same. In my middle school, we called expats "third-culture kids." This phrase aptly describes the cultural limbo into which expatriates are placed when they come home to university in the U.S.
As an expatriate, you're able to see much of the world sooner than most people, and this exposure is worth volumes as an education on the necessity of tolerance. The paltry paean of Georgetown's New Student Orientation program, known as "Pluralism in Action," gives only a slight inkling of the multicultural exposure that expatriates are granted by virtue of their locales.
On the other hand, we have less of a steady foundation on which to rely when times get tough or, God forbid, we have to move from our current posting.
Expats also exist in cultural flux. We never really go through the socialization process that other kids do. Although we view our "home" culture critically from afar, we can never fully be part of our "host"culture. We all watch The Simpsons and drink Coke, but these things don't make us American. They mean we have eyes and are thirsty. When expats return home, we are all shocked by how different things are.
Home is never the same as we left it, and any homecoming is bittersweet.
Pardon the Greek reference, but Homer's Odyssey portrays the homecoming of Odysseus as a bittersweet experience. Home is not the same as when he left, and neither are the people he left behind. Suitors are pursuing his wife and his house has fallen into disarray. While sermonizing on this piece of literature, my ninth grade English teacher declared, "you can never really go home, because it will never be the same." This is the paradox that faces expatriates. We want to return to the days that seemed so carefree, so tolerant, and so perfect, but those days don't exist anymore.
Such is expat life.
When I informed my UPenn friend that I actually loved my time in Houston, he looked me dead in the eyes and said, "that's fine, just as long as you remember that your best days were in Jakarta."
The only response I could muster was, "that's kind of depressing." Our best days should always be ahead of us. They should always be tomorrow. It is depressing to think that a person's life should peak at the tender age of eighteen, but this is how many expats view life.
When we leave Georgetown - for a short break or for good - we should treasure the past and use it to make us better people for the future. As we pine for the holidays, we should remember that the past is not a place to which we can bodily return.
Neither our past nor our homes are stationary. They move with us, with our desires, our roots and the people we attach ourselves to.
Home is where the heart is, not where the past was.
Gangelhoff is a foreign service freshman