Thursday, February 28, 2013
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| From Main Street America... |
Usually,
expat assignments last under five years. But when we rented our
current house in Belgium, we had to sign a nine-year lease. We did
this because if we were to leave before the end of the lease, the
fees would be much less. I almost laughed out loud as I signed the
paper and thought, "Yeah right, we'll never be here that long."
After
that signature, I was officially an
expat.
Before leaving the US, telling people of our move abroad sparked
great interest because it seemed so out of the ordinary. But in fact,
arriving in Brussels proved just how normal it was. I was excited to
hear stories of other families who had already lived in five
countries or more. Considering we had already lived in three States
in our first four years of marriage, I expected the same
globe-trotting life. My husband's assignment had indeed been
specified as a two to three-year deal...
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| ...to Main Street Belgium |
Hoping
to travel a bit through Europe in those couple years, I expected to
be back in the US for my first daughter, then only 1 year old, to
start kindergarten. Instead, we have
had
a second baby
a
sprained neck from falling off a swing
an
appendicitis
traveled
to a dozen countries at least once (excluding the USA)
celebrated
baptisms and communions
started
both daughters in school - local
and international
survived
lay-offs, budget cuts, furloughs
benefitted
from job title changes and promotions
made
a slew of friends
said
good-bye to many of them
learned
about the world through these friends
and
continue to make more...
At
some point between comparing potty-training practices and starting
the children in primary school, I stopped feeling like an expat. I
was just another woman, mother, wife, writer, living somewhere
else.
Nothing
replaces family but when your closest friends are also away from
their families, a natural and strong bond forms. We support each
other no matter the color of the hand being held, how smooth or rough
it may be, or to where that hand waved good-bye. We celebrate our
children's birthdays, help out when they fall ill, and have a good
laugh at our cultural
faux
pas.
I
have been also fortunate to make some very dear Belgian friends.
Speaking French before the move certainly helped. I could comfortably
attend local playgroups, go shopping, explain various ailments to
medical professionals, read the newspaper, pay my speeding tickets
and parking violations (I'm getting off track)... but all that to
say, I did my best to integrate.
After
five years, my husband was rehired under a local contract. We aren't
even technically expats anymore. Regardless, I am still referred to
by the neighbors as l'américaine
qui parle français
(the
American who speaks French).
And
so this “expat life” has slowly taken shape as, simply, “life.”
I just happen to live in Belgium, raise my kids as bilinguals with
two nationalities (neither
one being Belgian),
renew passports on a regular basis, pay taxes in two countries, and
rack up quite a few frequent flyer miles... like so many other
people.
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| Oh, the places we go! |
And
what about these Third Culture Kids I'm raising? This life is the
only one they have ever known, except for my eldest daughter's six
months at a YMCA daycare. When we go back to the US, I take my
daughters around to my old neighborhood, to my friends' homes, to
play at my old playground, to have ice cream at the same stand open
only in the summers and still run by the same family. But to them,
that's “Mum's country” (yes, they even call me 'mum' instead of
'mom'). The US is a world of cook-outs, swimming pools, beaches, and amusement
parks.
Visiting
their French mamie
and their English grandad
in
France
doesn't
seem all that different than being in Belgium except that they happen
to live in the Alps and the bread is... well... crustier. Considering
we spend almost every holiday with them (except for the Christmas
during which the above-mentioned appendix was removed from my
daughter), France is the land of skiing, hot chocolate, pain
au raisins,
long meals and late-nights.
But
in Belgium, my children are who they are. They like fries, but also snails, and pâté. They love
bandes
dessinées
(comic
books). They don't even bat an eye when a different language is
spoken. And still, they are influenced by my American side (i.e., I
do accidentally speak louder than the kids like in public places) and
my husband's French and English sides (i.e., we systematically have
to stop for an espresso mid-morning no matter where we are or where
we are going and the same is true at 4pm for a tea). And so, my
children are living their unique hotchpotch of a culture beside all
the other Third Culture Kids running through the Belgian playgrounds.
This is, simply, their life.
I
would be quite happy to move the family to another country, to see
new monuments, to learn another language and about a new culture
first-hand. But at the end of the day, whether we're sitting at the
dinner table around moules
frites
or fish and chips,
couscous or
coq au vin, or
even
mac and cheese (for
which I've spent a small fortune at an American food shop), we're
still here...growing, learning, living...and loving it.
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3 comments:
Beautifully written. Thank you!
Beautifully written. Thank you!
You've been featured on this month's Culture Swapper!
http://alldonemonkey.com/2013/04/02/april-culture-swapper-is-live/
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