Losing My Voice

I can't really trace it back to a specific time or place.  It's been happening for a while, now, but it's been in the past six months that it has accelerated beyond my control.

I remember mocking TOH for once, while on the train out to New Jersey - to Elizabeth for a pilgrimage to cheap chests of drawers and bookshelves at IKEA, I think, but I could be wrong - for exclaiming at all the "soccer fields."  It was hilarious and ridiculous; it was a story to tell our families and friends of the Americanisation (-zation?) he was undergoing, while I remained pristine, the intact Londoner.  I think I really believed that would continue; that I would live here without being touched by it - at least in this respect.

Of course, words crept in, here and there.  That was inevitable.  It's impossible to make oneself understood otherwise.  Phone calls can be particularly painful, with my clipped, cold accent, long vowels, and Old World vocabulary.  Then there would come the joshing - it's you who haven't moved on, US of A, with your language that's closer to ye olde English of the Pilgrims - we've evolved.  We use a preterite, where I come from - that's what I learnt. 

It's like a steady form of memory loss, this erasure of my identity, my tongue.  Is that British?  What is the word for that at home?  Is it the same?  Explaining the nuances of "quite"; substituting it with "pretty."  Where would I emphasi(s)e that word?  Where does that stress come in?  Ad-DRESS.  AD-dress. 

Shop.  Store.  Boots.  Cleats.  Football.  Football.  I mean football.  The one where more than two players actually use their feet.  I mean NFL.  College Football. 

August, 2013.  I am in a cab, heading home from the supermarket.  That's home-home, not Brooklyn-home.  I have two homes.  My mum got back from a hospital stay a few hours ago; I have picked up provisions.  The cab driver asks me where I live.  I'm taken aback, but then I realise - it's because I clearly don't live here anymore.  US?  Yes, nine years.  He speaks with a thick Indian accent; he moved to Britain in his late 30s and, despite being in his 50s now, he struggles with the language still, a little - he started learning it too late.  He struggles with certain words ("Well, 'mumble' means...") and with my accent.  I get to my destination, and he takes my shopping across the street for me.  I leave him a tip; he doesn't realise that I have left, lost, a little of my soul, my heart, a sense of myself, in his car.

Some things stick.  Pronunciations.  Quarter.  Water. 

Tomato is the real kicker, the one that I avoid saying if I can, at all. 

I used to slip into my accent - myself, the person I still think I am - like a comfy slipper.  With British strangers; with family on the phone; with friends in the pub at home.  Now, I struggle.  I can't remember what I sounded like.  I can't drink full British pints; I order halves.  The voice is unnatural, forced.  Even when surrounded by people from home, I don't sound like them.  It used to irritate me, my inability to keep my accent - I would become Bristolian-light if with people from the West Country; Brummie in Birmingham; and flatten my vowels with anyone north of Leicester.  My accent ever was a bastardized thing, with East and West Midlands parents, Sarf-East London roots, and for much of my childhood, a desperate need to not sound Sarf-East, my telephone voice for work (terribly home counties and nice), my reclaiming of London for university, my Yorkshire partner.  Sometimes people from home couldn't tell which part of the country I was from.  But it was me; British me; original me. And for some reason, it's much harder to accept that there is, indeed, NYC me mingled in how I speak.  Tipping; clothing; demanding good customer service; good summers, with free parties and concerts and outdoor activities; expecting 24-hour cheap public transport and cabs.  These things are all easily part of me.  But not the voice.  Please not the voice.

I still say London when people ask where I'm from.  But it is increasingly hard to sound like it.

Gaping Holes

Some of the most disconnecting experiences that arise from not being at home occur when you go home. It is particularly noticeable when I go home at the end of the year, and we do those "what happened in 2009" quizzes that newspapers print around Christmas, and I have no idea what's going on. So I do try and connect with home - I listen to The News Quiz (my favourite podcast of the moment), I read bits and pieces from the Guardian, I follow British folks on Twitter, subscribe to The Spin and The Fiver, and occasionally do British crosswords, too. I listen to radio 1 and podcasts from home to make sure I'm down with the kids and what they're listening to.

But it's just not the same - I have no real idea who Jedward are, other than X-Factor contestants. I cannot share in that experience. I am not watching the transition from David Tennant to that young pup who is now going to be Doctor Who (and I've really not even tried to reserve judgment about what a letdown it's going to be without Tennant, btw). I wasn't at home for Nick Griffin on Question Time, or for the remarkable Ashes triumph.

Right now, everyone's running a "best of the decade" about this, that or the other. And I've probably spent 60% of the decade at home, 40% in the US, which really is affecting my polls. For example, none of the polls I've seen here for album of the decade put Original Pirate Material in the top 50, whereas I - SPOILER ALERT - would have it in my top 5. I cannot imagine my life without it - it was an essential part of being in London in the early 2000s. And people here sort of get it, but not really, I don't think. The best tv show lists feature The Office, but do not mention Peep Show - a ridiculous oversight - or State of Play, which I think are two of the best British TV programmes ever, let alone this decade. Or, indeed, the reborn Doctor Who.

It made me realise that I like being this mixture of British and American culture - I would never really have watched Arrested Development or How I Met Your Mother if I still lived at home, I don't think. But I'm acutely aware that however desperately I try to maintain my British cultural knowledge, the listen again function can't really keep me current with it.

Of course, this is also an announcement that December will see many best of lists from me, whether you like it or not. Ha!

Back to Where You (Sort of) Came From

My father is going back to Germany this week for the first time in 25 years or so. Seriously. He hasn't been back to Germany since there were two; since before the Wall fell. Yet he is (rustily) fluent in German, taught German, and lived there at various times in the 1960s and 1970s. I think it's going to be a strange, strange thing for him. Because where you live does infect you, become part of you. So it must be a strange trip up ahead, if wonderful, given the glorious things I've heard about Berlin.

But I thought about this, and it occurred to me how easy it has been to be a white person who moves around where she or he wants. When I lived in Barcelona, I just had to get a piece of paper filed with the police, then I had my numero de extranjeros and that was that - medical bills, no probs, taxes paid properly, bank account got. Of course, the little tarjeta that made me official took forever to come, but still - all relatively straightforward. And then I remember all the people who told me they hated immigrants, but that - after I pointed out little old me - I was "different." And so it probably was for my father in Germany, in a way it really would have been more difficult to do so if not white.

I'm not sure I would have taken this path of thought if it were not thanks to various pieces of anti-non-white things that have happened of late - Pat Buchanan's crazy rants about how white people's culture is under threat, Nick (shudder) Griffin on Question Time at home talking about how London isn't really British because so many non-white people are there. So I've been thinking a lot about this sort of thing. And I am grateful that Boris Johnson and Andrew Sullivan represent conservative thinking that stands up to this nonsense about how the English and Americans are so flipping "white," when, really, that doesn't mean anything given our nations' histories.

Splitter

I've been enjoying myself at home, despite the circumstances - the weather has been glorious, we have eaten extremely well, and I have spent some extended time with my parents and various wonderful home people.

Being home again provokes torn responses within me, parts of me struggling against each other. The New York part rallies against seeing the Daily Mail, the election of BNP politicians (and, more gallingly, the willingness of people to excuse voting for the BNP because people are pissed off with Labour and immigration - no matter how pissed off I am with any politician, it does not excuse racism), Boris Johnson, early closing, tube strikes, etc. etc...

Yet the Londoner rejoices in staying in a house, with a garden; the abundance of tea, decent dairy products, and curries as well as the availability of creme fraiche; cricket on the tv and radio; cryptic crosswords; pub gardens - the weather has been so good that everywhere you went this weekend, you saw people just hanging out with a pint and the sun on their shoulders. Lovely.

I just wish I could have both - the things I love about New York combined with the lure of home comforts and the proximity of continental Europe. If only. I can satisfy myself however with the knowledge that I have also been (not so subtly) waging a war on TOH's predilection for North London, which hopefully will, if and when we return home, pay dividends. Small steps.

En-Titled

I read this really interesting post today at Shakesville about the who gets to be "immigrants" or "expats."* I really have experienced that good immigrant, bad immigrant dichotomy (with Liss's post assuming that "expat" is good, "immigrant" is bad). All the time I lived in Spain, there would be a lot of grousing about immigrants, which is, admittedly, a relatively new phenomenon (compared obviously with here and the UK to a certain extent - we're talking last 20 years rather than 50-400). When I would point out that I was, too, an immigrant, I'd get some variant on "oh, they're not like you, you're different/fine."

It would drive me mad. Do you point out that the cheap food, the amazing new buildings, the nannies, these are all underpinned by the immigrant class that they're so willing to dismiss/scorn/denigrate? Is it even worth it, when the response is so often "yes, but they're thieves/immoral / dirty/blah blah blah."

I would never, ever, ever use the term "expat" to describe myself. My aversion is based on the involuntary shudders of horror at the connotations the word has for me, those of sweaty Englishmen on the southern Spanish coast who refuse to speak Spanish, only eat baked beans, and refuse to take part in la vida there. That is, it's based on snobbery. At least in part. But the other part is that I see immigration as integration - you contribute to the economy, society and culture, you become part of that country, even if it's temporary. I met an expat when I lived in Barcelona who had spent her entire life in Spain, yet spoke virtually no Spanish. It makes no sense to me. Expats, to me, are simply those who want their own lives, their own culture and society, just with better weather/lower taxes. They go for the jobs and nothing else. People rail at Mexican and other American immigrants taking American jobs, but it's not that - they come here not just for work but to build a better future for their families and their kids, whether at home or in the States. For some, it is the dream of being estadounidense, for others it's being able to send their kids to decent schools and clothe and feed extended families.

Why would someone would label someone else one of these two things. It's simple class snobbery. We (the hypothetical, not me) hate the peasants, but the educated folks, they can come over here all they want. It's fear of a grasping, swarming underclass that lives in a way we don't understand. Whereas the white upper middle classes, they're so like us. You can hear it in the language - flooding, invaded, overwhelmed, "those people." They find poor people utterly infra dig. and graceless in general - they are embarrassed and ashamed of their own compatriots who are poor, so what chance is there for these highly visible people - visible targets because they speak differently and are darker skinned, in general. Yet, invisibly, the poor people grow and harvest our food, they tend to our children for only $200 a month (we wouldn't want it interfering with spending sprees at J. Crew or on a meal), they bring us food, they wash our dishes, mow our lawns, and do everything else that makes America so great - not the Americas, obviously, but the US of A.** In contrast, someone who could be educated at home, but elects not to, there is an elegance and element of liberty and freedom to that that we understand.

For me, I've always assumed that it's an obvious choice you make as to whether you're an expat or an immigrant, at least in mindset. Sadly, in terms of labelling, it is generally only those of (white) European descent who get the privilege of labelling themselves, rather than being labelled.

* Update: This is actually an entire series. On the term "illegal," read this. On the arrest of Ingmar Guandique, read this (the post that started the series).

** Note: This bitter tirade also applies to the UK and our complete ingratitude and ignorance about immigrants and "asylum seekers." I'm not just getting at the US - I'm getting at the people who think like this, wherever they are.

Lovely, Dark and Deep

The scenes from snowy London make me yearn to be at home. I've been following the somewhat snarky comments about London's inability to cope with the snow, and, as always, reacted defensively. Then today, I attempted to buy a halfway decent birthday card for my stepmother and, as always, was horrified by how bloody awful the choice of American greetings cards is. So I'm going to think about this and blog on it, in the coming weeks. After all, this is a blog about going abroad and I frequently have wanted to get back to its roots. In the meantime, read this frank and lovely article about the innocence of London in the snow.

Furnished

We just bought a bed. Other than the flight to Africa for the post-Bar trip, it's the biggest single purchase of my entire life.

Ulp. Still. We've been on the same futon that TOH bought when he first arrived in NYC, 6 years ago, since we got here. The only reason that even has a frame is TOH woke up when on the floor with a roach crawling across his extremely manly, chiselled chest. So it's about time. It's just... weird. One of the things about this place is I'm reluctant to make the big ticket purchases, in part because I feel it's a waste. Because we'll do all that when we're grown up, back home. It's part of the impermanence of living here - we're not staying so we shouldn't buy these things that we can't take home, or wherever we end up next. I can't get used to getting paid, and I can't get used to the fact that we're going to be here a while. And how much more grown up do I need to be before we invest in these sort of things? I carry a pack of tissues, breath mints and a Tide (stain removing thing) pen with me everywhere. I prefer midweek drinks in bars where I can hear my friends speak. I'm grown up. Sort of.

It is a truly gorgeous bed. Hopefully it won't become the cat hair magnet that the undertow of our current bed is. Wishful thinking, I'm sure.

Echoes

Coming home always feels like stepping into an imprint of my memories, but like a spot the difference puzzle - some things have shifted to a different place, changed colour, or simply vanished. While I know that things can't stay the same, and my expectations have changed over time, it's weird when you walk down a road you've walked down countless times, and you're reaching for something that just isn't there any more. It's disorienting. Particularly when you idealise the place. Not that I think Catford is the bomb.com, because it's really not; it doesn't have to be, though, because it's home, and that's far more affecting than some former paradise you once had a great holiday.

Today, I came home, and all those feelings and processes have resurfaced. The beauty of crossing the Thames, reminding me just why I feel the absence of a river where I live in NYC (maybe Brooklyn and crossing the river daily will change that, as and when we move?), and those sights that have been there for centuries, the cobbled together houses and Southwark Cathedral at Borough, the rooftops seen from the train; all these felt familiar, warm, comforting. The blossom in full effect, bluebells out everywhere, people cutting their hedges in their front gardens - front gardens! - were glorious. Yet I crash back to earth, with the ugly, stripped, mutilated magnolia tree in a garden of a deceased neighbour. She was a sweet lady, always friendly, and her garden was always heavenly in spring - anything you could name, bursting in colour. But what really hit me, every time, was the sight of that magnolia in spring - huge, dripping with the weight of its petals. And it's gone, to all intents and purposes. Why would you do that? Why not cut it entirely, rather than desecrate it?

Mamma Mia

Today is my mother's birthday. It's horrible being away from some of the most important people in your life at the best of times, but on days like today, it's really miserable, for all concerned. It doesn't help when the sun is shining; it jars, making me feel at odds with the world. The time difference is a huge problem; my day was just starting and my mother's was already in the afternoon, and is probably wondering why I've not phoned yet, when I'm going to. It's inevitable, even when you know rationally of the time difference and that it's impossible for them to call.

Still, my mother is hopefully rejoicing in the glow from TWO English victories yesterday (although how much glow you get from beating Estonia is up for debate) and the knowledge that it's also Cliff Richard's birthday today, too. So I decided to look up other important things, to prove it's an auspicious day:

• Battle of Hastings - well, I knew that one. Still cool.
• Battle of Byland - Robert the Bruce forcing England to accept Scotland's independence.
• In 1582 this day did not exist in Italy, Portugal, Poland and Spain due to implementation of the Georgian calendar.
• George Washington proclaims the first ever Thanksgiving in 1789.
• Henry Blair is the first African American to receive a patent, in 1834
• In 1963 it marks the first use of the term Beatlemania
• MLK becomes the youngest person to win the Nobel Peace Prize in 1964

And awesome people sharing a birthday with my mum:

• William Penn
• Eamon de Valera
• Hannah Arendt
• Roger Moore
• Ralph Lauren
• Christopher Timothy
• Steve Cram
• Steve Coogan
• and, my personal favourite, Usher

Happy Birthday Mum.

Frittering Away

I have recently, traumatically, decided to give up my old, beloved email address, for a spanking new gmail. I had my own domain; it spawned the name of this blog, and then others (well, one).

Alas, I have had to let it go for the simple reason that every hour I am getting something like a hundred delivery failure notices, all responding to accounts along the lines of gethairyjim@gracegoesabroad.co.uk. It has utterly paralysed my old account. Which makes me very sad indeed. It seems like a watershed; I am still going abroad, yet somehow I have to relinquish my symbolic statement. Now, I'm just like everyone else, not obviously linked to Blighty, with my metropolitan and ubiquitous gmail.

Apparently this sort of problem is due to email spoofing, whereby someone latches onto your domain and writes a programme that sends out hundreds of emails "appearing" to be from your account. According to my ever helpful host company, that's just something every internet user must bear, because the hackers are so much cleverer than the good guys and no one knows how to combat it.

What I honestly don't want to understand is why someone would write a programme that would annihilate someone's system like this; I can't see how it's for monetary gain which - have I been in the cradle of capitalism too long? - I would understand. It's the sheer maliciousness behind it that takes my breath away, because all it does is attempts to make your life difficult and miserable, which it has done.

Spinderella cut it up one time

I shall go to the ball.

Going to the Fordham Centennial Gala tonight - huzzzzzzah! We've hired out Ellis Island for this minor shindig... So excited!

Just wish I weren't so spotty, hadn't mashed up both my feet with football practice (yes, my own fault for toe-poking), so so so tired (six hours' sleep not enough), and had legs that are so unwilling to walk about right now... ugh. Revolting. Sorry.

Pat Buchanan, incidentally, is a bad human being. He was utterly offensive, unapologetic, and, essentially, insane. Remember your forbears, Mr Buchanan. Hmm, I wonder where that name comes from?

I really think the major problem is this mass of language and colour of the skin of the people entering. They, the (other) Americans entering are able to speak in a language that none of True Americans Can Possibly Understand and are brown. Honestly, this is it. Italians = not so much; Irish = both white and English-speaking.

Never mind that the crops have been failing in California this year due to lack of workers.

Happened in Costa Rica, too.

Both countries desperately trying to prevent immigrants entering. Trying to get them out of here.

Both utterly dependent on them. How embarrassing for them to be dependent on the aliens. Much like the Scientologists.

Count To Ten

It's hard to explain some people's level of hatred. I have the things I rant and rave about, but I honestly don't spend my days thinking "you know what? I'd really love to blow up thousands of people". And yet, it seems that nearly happened, due to the efforts of British people. It is genuinely as if these people have grown up in a different country to me; their experience is so different, their perspective of events. I am angry about so many things, so much of the time, ask anyone who's been near me after a couple of beers, but this... I just don't understand it. Killing is not how I fix things. Maybe it's not experience, so much as personality - my instinct is to allow the bile to calm down and then use it to try to change things.

And here, a charming man named Oscar López wants to make sure that there is "not a single foreigner more in our country". He also yesterday, in the Asamblea Legislativa, said that there should be prison sentences and laws to prevent Costa Ricans marrying foreign "indeseables". If you type that into my beloved Word Reference you find that it means undesirable but, in reality, it means a piece of rubbish, trash, garbage, crap. Nice.

What I particularly like about this guy is that he is head (and only representative in parliament) of the Partido Acesibilidad Sin Exclusión - the Party for Accessibility Without Exclusion.

Unless you're foreign, apparently. Then we must exclude you at all costs, never mind how much you contribute to our economy, to our nationhood (Guanacaste, one of the main sources of Tico identity, was Nicaraguan until pretty damned recently - but like Andalucía and the Moors and Gitanos in Spain, we don't want to admit that our image, our culture is from a place we consider ourselves superior to. Oh no), to our livelihood.

Pah. Hence this picture of a pretty beach to try to calm myself down.