We’re Moving Again: A Look into the Life of an Expatriate

It was an awfully brisk night in January, not seven days removed from the New Year’s beginning. We had been staying with a family friend as my mom had given up our house. They gave us a lift to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, not far from Nairobi, the capital. I remember how stressed my mother looked, trying to make sure that everyone and everything was in place. And then there were the planes: that was my candy and toy stores all wrapped up into one. My long-time fascination with aeroplanes, my desire to travel overseas was finally fulfilled.

A KLM Boeing 747

There it sat, a 747 Boeing Jet. On the tip of its fin read KLM in a sky-blue that accented the entirety of the plane’s exterior. Then it was boarding time, which seemed surprisingly short considering how long the sky-blue bird had been taunting me, sitting on the airport tarmac being refuelled, its lights constantly flashing, and the propellers on its wings continually whirring.

The tickets were checked and off we were, the patter of steps walking through the jetway the only sound to drown out the growl of the plane. The excitement was overwhelming. I was, for the first time in my life, both speechless and thoughtless. When encountering the first air hostess, my eye caught a glimpse of what looked to be the next day’s newspaper. My excitement was brought on by riding a plane and travelling, not by changing forever the course of events of my life. From that moment on, without realising it, my life would never be the same. If there is any one particular experience that defines me up until this segment of my life, it has to be my being an expatriate.

“Shifting” or “Moving” had always been a part of my vocabulary. I know of no time in my life when I remained in a school for three years, often switching and in the process also shifting to a different place to live. This one was bigger than I anticipated however. Coming to the United States to start over changed and continues to change my life daily. Many children share a similar experience, often moving to across continents on their parents’ whims (for me, it was my mother coming to complete her master’s degree). A civil servant in Kenya, she was very successful in her work with various organisations, working on the policy side of things most times. Travelling was a necessary function for her profession, at times leaving for weeks at a time.

She did the same following my birth, departing once again for school in England. My mother: the Globetrotter. Despite the fact that she loathed the time she spent away from me, the postcards and photos sent from abroad intensified my desire to travel. One particular postcard featured a Concorde under British flagship. Another showed the hustle and bustle of the London streets, the centre of the photo, however, being the striking red coming from the double-decker buses. I always revered her for what she did.

For all the benefits afforded to me by the experiences both my mother and I shared, the travelling has had seemingly irreversible effects, particularly on my psyche. Wherever I am, I will always feel as though I am the foreigner, a label which I feel will never shed no matter how many things time is said heal.

My accent, which I picked up as fast as I did my first McDonalds fry, is the same as “theirs”. So are my clothes, what I eat, and my words. Acculturation seems to have run its course with me and there is nothing that I can do about that.

In living the American experience, I maintain a different perspective than my peers in Kenya. Though I may still try to keep in line with my roots, those attempts are often unsuccessful.  Expatriates in countries not restricted to English are forced to learn another language or even two just to survive. The disconnect lies in the fact that as a foreigner in America, looking back to home shows itself to be a disheartening experience. It seems easy, right? Not so much. Even at “home,” the only one I know to be concrete in looking at the world would alienate me. I’ve become neither Kenyan nor American but a child of the world.

Children who move to these countries do not come to see the pitfalls of being uprooted up until a later time. As they are their parents’ followers, in most cases they have no say in the move altogether, despite being of the utmost importance to their parents. In countering the adverse effects of being an expatriate, there needs to be an open line of communication between parent and child. However interesting the experiences over time may show themselves to be, stability is very important. Children are usually thought to be very flexible and very adapting to situations. And that they may be; but instability and constant change have consequences that do not always bare themselves out immediately.

Culture shock, an inevitable consequence of being an expatriate can have seriously harmful effects. Homesickness is a real problem, because longing for home can lead to depression when not adequately dealt with in time. Of the many things my mother has said to me, one that left a lasting impression on was her response whenever I had needs that necessitated any kind of long-term adjustments, ending:  “…when we settle down.”

I always held out some hope that we would. Now I shrug my shoulders anytime I hear that. It’ll never happen.

Photos:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jihef/ / CC BY 2.0
http://www.flickr.com/photos/e01/ / CC BY-SA 2.0
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rogerbarker/ / CC BY 2.0

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