familial

i’ve never really identified as american.

during my many visits overseas, when someone asked where i was from, i’d answer ‘chicago’.

‘oh, you’re american!’

‘yes.’ i suppose. if you’re going to get technical about it.

‘i love new york,’ they’d respond. which is kind of like going up to julia roberts and telling her you loved ‘when harry met sally’. it has nothing to do with me and is vaguely insulting.

europeans rarely understand how large and diverse the u.s. is. and as a native chicagoan, i know that few people outside of my city recognize the middle child complex we have.

new york is the older, sophisticated sister. she married well and she makes condescending remarks about your reading material. when other countries ask ‘how are the girls?’ the first anecdote told is always about new york. with whom she’s had lunch, how well her new play is being received, how her dog was just given some prize for something or other. nobody really criticizes her, because anything said is written off as jealousy. and it makes you look really ugly to be jealous of new york.

los angeles is the wild baby sister. she’s too blonde and too tan and frequently a total fucking mess. you get calls from her in the middle of the night. raging wild fires this, falling into the ocean that. her santa ana mood swings are overlooked because she’s just so cute and charming and everybody’s pulling for her to really make it work this time! people see what she’s wearing and chuckle and wag their heads slightly. ‘that’s just so kooky,’ they say. ‘where she gets her ideas i’ll never know, but i’ll be damned if she doesn’t look fantastic!’

chicago pushes up its practical yet unflattering glasses. we could lose the weight if we wanted but you know what? that would be playing into their game. that would be competing with the other sisters. and there is no competing. but every once and a while when we were growing up, some eager suitor would arrive at the door looking for new york or los angeles and the sister wouldn’t be ready for their date yet. so we’d invite that guy in, and we’d sit on the sofa and chat with him, and he’d say, ‘wow, you’re really funny and easy to talk to.’ and we’d smile at one another. but then the intended sister would appear, all shiny and right and smelling pretty, and we would be forgotten.

tomorrow i get on a plane to england. it’s a one-way trip, and one that i’m expecting to be permanent. there, i can only imagine my familial role will be that of the embarrassing cousin. a little too loud, a little too emotional, a little too…too.

the man waiting for me on the other side of the atlantic once said to his mother, ‘it’s a good thing grandad is dead, so he won’t have to see me with a yank.’

this is both funny and a pretty good indication of what i expect to experience during my time as an expatriate.

tonight i listen to joy division and take a sleeping pill. tomorrow i get on a plane. friday, i am officially the grown cousin sat at the children’s table.

also, i plan to use ‘expat’ as a verb.

let’s go.