This September marks 10 years since my father died, and I left not only Florida, but the United States. Leaving the country was difficult, but now I’m working through a new type of grief: losing my connection with the US.
My relationships with my friends, family, and hometown have changed — but so has my relationship with myself. It’s not a feeling of wanting to return home, but realizing home continued without me.
I moved abroad at 21
I packed my bags at age 21 to move to Cameroon to serve two years in the Peace Corps. I then spent four years in Costa Rica, a year traveling, two in Belgium, and most recently, another year traveling the world.
During the decade, I haven’t spent more than a few weeks in the US each year. What started as fulfilling a job contract and wanting to explore the world turned into a fear that I no longer fit into the culture of the country in which I was born.
After returning to America after living abroad for just three years, I remember my cousin teasing me for not knowing any of the songs on the radio or the slang she used. After 10 consecutive years abroad, that lack of an easy social “in” has only grown more pronounced.
Returning home feels strange
Last month, as I drove from the airport to my mother’s house, a place I had lived as a teenager, I felt lost. I didn’t recognize the new construction until I was a few miles from her street.
Her neighborhood had new buildings, she had changed the art in my old bedroom, and she didn’t tell me she had ended her five-year relationship months prior. I know I had no reason to be consulted on any of these decisions, but I felt my absence. I feel like a visitor in my hometown.
I’ve changed, too. When I show my Italian boyfriend all the American foods I used to eat, I realize it has additives I no longer eat. I’ve learned to love my leisurely, hourlong lunches, and I’ve realized my family often eats convenience food while they work. While it feels like we’re more of a cohesive unit at dinner, talk still revolves around work, and I can always hear others’ phone alerts.
My family was surprised that when I made cookies, they didn’t come from a ready-made mix, and that I’d spend hours on Sunday cooking lunch — they were just as happy with a cold sandwich.
It’s getting harder to relate to friends and family in the US
I understand very few pop culture references and am less and less able to explain American idioms to my partner. I can talk to you about Vietnam’s coffee styles or Ghent’s biking culture, but I know nothing about football or the Grammys. Sometimes I find myself laughing at a reference I don’t understand or changing how I talk about my interests so I don’t come off as too different.
My childhood friends are married with kids and politely decline invitations to visit me in another country. Most of us lose a few friends as we age, but I often feel it’s because I moved out of the country, and if I want to connect with them, I need to fly home and make my life a bit easier to understand.
Many family members center their lives around their jobs and their houses — I’ve never even owned a car. I’m also the only cousin in my family who hasn’t gotten married and had kids. I’m proud that I’ve been to over 50 countries and thrived in so many new environments, but I often feel like my life experiences don’t translate into conversation.
Core experiences to me — like the frustration of learning Italian and lapsing into Spanish while speaking to my in-laws, or the joy I have in finding the same rare flower in different countries — are far more important than what I do for work, yet that’s often the first thing people ask about.
I sometimes feel like an outsider, even with family
When friends from other countries ask whether what they see in movies or on the news is what America is really like, I find myself saying, “I’m not sure.” I feel my nationality is clear when I’m outside the US, from my high consumption of peanut butter to my feelings about customer service to my rare requests for ice in my water. But in the country, I feel like an imposter.
I knew this feeling of being an outsider would come one day, but I didn’t expect it to hit me while walking down my street, talking with my family. As I was becoming someone else, the country I left was becoming something else too.
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