Hi Joe:
The whole discussion of escaping the empire, and your experiences of being a non-original resident in a land not mentally or socially geared to immigration sets off all kinds of bells, whistles and echoes of feelings past and present.
Being someone who more or less bailed out forty years ago, I may have little to contribute that is relevant to what you're talking about. I have no direct experience with what living in the US entails these days. The land I left behind was seemingly benign compared to what's going on today. LBJ was president the last time I had legal residence in the US. On the other hand, I've lived a long time in Europe (Norway and France) with varying degrees of consciousness of being an expatriate.
I gave up US citizenship and have only been back twice in 40 years (once after two years, then again 35 years after that). Despite my Norwegian citizenship, Norwegian wife, Norwegian kids and Norwegian life, I've never totally severed the ties to the land of my birth. There is that core essence that is based on a 1950s childhood in Southern California and that never goes away. But I know the curiously liberating state of not belonging anywhere that is the curse or blessing of those who take the giant step and leave. Your new homeland will never accept you completely, not because of any lack of good will or greater or lesser degree of xenophobia, but simply because your frame of reference is not completely congruent. Norwegians never let you forget that you're not 100% Norwegian since you're not "from" somewhere in Norway. Meanwhile, the "old country" goes on without you and is soon somehow unrecognizable in all its familiarity, a foreign land you know too well.
I've gone through various stages. There's the land of milk and honey phase, where everything in your new surroundings is charming and refreshingly different, paradise compared to the hell hole you left. Then there's the arrogant asshole phase where all that's less than perfect is compared unfavorably with all that is/was good about the land you left.
A lot of expats I've known get stuck in this phase: the food tastes bad or is expensive. The people are surly or unfriendly or ugly. The government is corrupt, bureaucratic, incomprehensible. The climate is cold, hot, windy, humid, etc. "Why can't they ..." and then comes a varying litany on all that is good in the land that they left. And this is not particularly an American phenomenon. It's funny how in my experience, Frenchmen in Norway and Americans in France sounded remarkably alike in their complaints about the country they were living in. I know how it sounds because I myself was stuck in that aloof limbo for years.
And yet I one day realized that my emotional allegiance was transferred. America had no claim on my soul any more, or rather, the America that did was a thing of the past. I think there's a nuance of difference here that only becomes visible over time, when you finally give up the concept of returning, when traveling to the US is not defined as returning because that's no longer where you live no matter how much you feel American. In one sense you're no longer an expatriate, because you now live in the country that is your home, your patria. American you may remain culturally, historically but not on a deeper level. You are no longer one of them, they are not you. I don't know that my experience is typical, but there it is.
Peace
John
Norway
PS. Despite the dumb Swede stereotype of Scandinavians in the US, or the reactionary reality of many of the Scandinavian communities there, there is a knife fighting, moonshine drinking, horse stealing, don't fuck with me reality to Norwegians in Norway at least, that has a lot in common with the Borderers you wrote about.
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John,
Beautifully put!
The odd thing for me is that it is slowly turning me toward a sort of spiritual path. Yet it's nearly impossible to write about that aspect. And if you write about the downside of living in a Third World country, the condition of the people, the staggering difficulties in everyday life here, it comes off as just more misery porn for the American market.
But like you said, there is an initial excitement and freshness that is quite invigorating. I try to use that as a springboard to other possible small self-sponsored development projects, probably in other similar countries of Latin America. Right now, I see Belize as mainly a secure base from which I can operate securely outside the Empire.
Meanwhile, my garifuna family has become quite intertwined with my life, being a godfather, helping secure future education for the children, etc. I find that to be an anchor. I've not had much time to sit and stew about my situation. But when I do, I suspect may go through the exact same stages you described.
In art and labor,
Joe
