I am an American citizen. I have to be honest about that right off the bat (and clearly I have to use an American sport’s reference just to emphasise the point).
But my ‘American-ness’ is always up for debate, by others and by myself.
I was born to American parents, but their own 'American-ness' is quite diluted. My father, through certain circumstances worth their own post, was not even an American citizen until he was thirteen. Then, my parents moved to Scotland in the 1980s and have been residents of the Highlands since. So, in some familial way, somewhere down the line they are officially recognised as American, but their ‘American-ness’ is still in question a lot of the time.
While my family was in Angola, we were affiliate with an American mission board, and while I knew my family didn't fit right in culturally I assumed that was because we read Harry Potter and listened to NPR. I didn't pick up that being Scottish, then being Portuguese, and then Angolan, watered down our American identity. I just assumed all families, and all people really, understood how culture changes people and all missionaries must be a conglomeration of the countries they have served.
When I went to university in Tennessee I learned very quickly how non-American I am, and how recognisable I was an American, so I clung ferociously to my other passport country - the UK. I lived in Scotland during the summers. I could get away with not being American in Tennessee, I could get away with being a missionary kid with strange culture blind spots and different memories and a complete lack of Southern American knowledge.
When I moved to Cambridge, England as an adult, I had hopes for a different kind of acceptance. I hoped the passport country I had been so loyal too during my undergrad education would welcome me home with a warm embrace and say ‘Oh, of course you’re British, you belong right here.’
Sadly, or humorously, that did not happen. It was another jolt of culture shock for me. The unexpected foreign-ness, both of myself and of England to me sent me into a mental tailspin. It felt like missing a step on the way down the staircase. A cultural foundation I thought would be there wasn't. Much to the chagrin of my culture shock sick stomach.
For several years, after we left Angola and before I made Cambridge home, I belonged nowhere. Home was dismantled and it was rebuilt, but mid year flights and a half packed suitcase make settling a challenge. A booked flight makes home seem an improbability, and it doesn’t help when the damp, leaky family home is in a country that no one believes you belong to.
Fortunately, those years did not last forever. Feeling unknown, while frequent, isn't as pervasive as it used to be. There have been moments, glimpses of God's providential hand, where others have recognised the hodge lodge collection within my heart.
This was one such moment. I was spending time with another cross cultural couple, the husband a TCK from Australia, France and England, and the wife an expat from Texas. We have had a wonderful and deep friendship for several years and when I remember their thoughtfulness I think back to this one moment.
The husband had asked his wife if I had joined a Facebook group called ‘American Women Living in the UK.’ She replied that she hadn’t invited me to it and he asked why not. Her answer, a small observation, but a massive insight for an ATCK and chronic expat:
‘I don’t know if Iona describes herself as an American living in the UK. She’s American and British so she might not think of herself as an American expat here.’
A small moment, a short answer, but one that meant a great deal to me.
While I understand parts of American culture, I also know I don’t fully fit in there. While I seem American to British counterparts I know I could fly to the South and feel just as foreign there as I did in Saudi Arabia.
While I know I’m an expat, I know my British-ness is not up to snuff, I also know I am not ‘An American Living in the UK.’ Because that title, that explanation of self, comes with a lot of weight I'm not prepared or qualified to carry.
Being an American living in the UK means looking for ways to recreate American snacks, foods, holidays, meals, memories here in the UK. An American living in the UK means waiting for their next flight back across the Atlantic to visit parents. I don’t remember the last time I flew to the States to see my own parents, if ever. An American living in the UK is looking to recreate Thanksgiving meals from their childhood years, finding the right onion soup that will plaster up that ever flowing gap of nostalgia. Being an American in the UK means being able to answer questions about American culture, American politics, American life.
But what are you called when you are an American living in the UK with very few American memories?
What are you called when your comfort meals are stir fries thrown together in a dorm kitchen in Kenya? What are you when you feel homesick for airports? What are you when your favourite part of the grocery shop is not your passport country’s section? What are you when your childhood memories and your cumulative exposure to culture mean you will never fit in either of your countries, and you have to fight for validation to be from either of them? What are you when you understand the nuances of your cultural identity but it’s exhausting to explain them? What are you when your political worldview is bred out of the Third Culture?
These are important questions asked amongst Adult Third Culture Kids (ATCKs). We know we’re supposed to follow certain cultural roles, but we’re not sure which ones.
I'm grateful I am not alone in the ATCK community, and I am not alone in trying to find out how much to assimilate to a culture without compromising my third culture upbringing.
Recently, I reconnected with a friend from boarding school. She asked me for a percentage of how well I could blend in when I visit the States. I said at least 85-90% and then I clarified ‘That’s not how American I feel.’
‘No, no of course not!’ She said, ‘Just how much you can ‘pass’ as an American.’ She proceeded to explain her own percentages of ‘passing’ for her passport culture and reiterated again that she didn’t feel a part of that culture, but it was monumental to not stand out. We talked about knowing how to pass as our passport culture, but not knowing how to belong.
There are some things I have more experience doing ‘as an American’ so that is the easy cultural garb to wear while doing them. But at the end of the day, it feels like a costume, just like my Scottish-ness feels very close to misplaced patriotism.
Often, I’m scrambling for enough strands of a culture to piece together a whole person - and the best I come up with, for now, in this English town with my American husband, is an expat.
An expat living in her own country.
An expat searching for the embassy of misfits.
An expat who will still happily celebrate American Thanksgiving in a few weeks.
An expat who will make cornbread dressing and share stories about the fourth Thursday in November spent on an airplane from Nairobi to Johannesburg, or from Nashville to Riyadh, or Edinburgh to Chicago.
An expat who felt overwhelmingly seen by a friend who kindly understood that being American and living in the UK does not necessarily mean an American Living in the UK.