Begin at the Beginning

“So, where are you from?”

It’s a common question, one I myself use reflexively at the cusp of an awkward silence when I’m getting to know someone. And always, a minute or so later, I find myself reflexively regretting it because inevitably the question will get turned back to me. And the answer isn’t bad, it’s just complicated, and the telling of it always ends with having to explain, and explain my explanation, until the listener (who undoubtedly was expecting a simple answer) wanders off, eyes glazed. After inevitably telling me that I should write a book about it.

Which, well… I refrain from pointing out that if the telling of the synopsis nearly bored them to tears, why shouldn’t I expect to put someone in a coma if I actually wrote the whole thing down? I’ve begun to suspect that maybe “You should write a book” is actually just the most polite way to say “Please stop talking.”

(Also, by the way, in case you were wondering, for folks who veer on the edge of social paranoia, there is nothing worse than a polite person who will never tell anyone how they really feel, and only hint around the issue. At the end of the day, it’s not a kindness. It’s just a way to feed an anxiety attack. Also, keep in mind that when you are polite to a fault, you are actually a liar. Which is not polite.)

But I digress.

I’ve come up with a sort of system for this conversation, one which provides all kinds of off-ramps, where the listener can say “Oh, that’s interesting…” and change the damned subject.

It starts like this: First I say “I lived in Latin America until I was 12, and then moved to Southern California.” (See, it’s clear enough, unambiguous, and here’s the perfect spot to say “Oh, cool. So how about that weather we’ve been having?” Exit. Ramps.)

Most often, though, they ask: “Oh really? Where?”

To which I respond: “Um.. it’s a long list. Do you really want me to go on?”

Okay - I have to interject, here. It’s only six countries. But for anyone who hasn’t lived in six different countries, I have learned it is a long list. I can hear my sister scoff in the back of my mind, but that’s a story for another day. I’ve also met a whole lot of American kids who have lived in more states than that, and I would argue the culture shock is not really all that different. Having also lived on both coasts with a brief interlude somewhere in between as an adult, I make this assertion from personal experience.

But - do you see what I mean? It’s already complicated, and I haven’t even started naming places. So, anyway, they ask for the list. Nine times out of ten. And I spit it out as quickly as I can.

Guatemala, Panama, the Dominican Republic, Mexico and Venezuela, and then the US.

If you’re reading this in the early 2020’s, the second to last last one sounds like a waaaaaaayyyyy bigger deal than it was for me. At the time that I was there, Venezuela was one of the most prosperous Latin American countries, an OPEC member, oil producing nation. The largest middle class of all of Latin America. Things were good and only getting better. The jet-set wealthy would weekend in Aruba. This was long long before the collapse and crisis it’s been having for the better part of 30 years.

(See what I mean? Complicated. Nearly impossible for me not to end up sidetracked in some strange corner trying to describe a fruit no one has ever seen, or providing context to what should have been a simple little story.)

I have to admit that I recite the list quickly, forestalling the painful part, where the listener telegraphs I-don’t-want-to-hurt-your-feelings-but-I-really-didn’t-come-here-for-a-biography, and I clear my throat and say something about the weather.

But I should be fair, that’s only one of the reactions I might get. There are times when a story like this is a welcome distraction or sparks actual curiosity - I have to admit, I’m painting my listener with a mean broad stroke.

But even for the curious, it still gets awkward, because now we come to the point where they are trying to figure out a polite way to say but you don’t sound Latin American without actually saying that I don’t sound Latin American. Before it gets too awkward I explain that my mom and dad are from the States, that I’ve spoken both languages my whole life, that I spent all of my holidays and summers in California where my extended family lived, that my dad worked for Colgate.

My mom used to joke that it was easier just to say my dad worked for the CIA, since “working for Colgate” sounds like a CIA cover. Thinking about it now, it might have been easier just to say they were missionaries. Except that it may lead to conversations about churches and bibles, of which I know next to nothing.

So, here’s the story, with an actual beginning, like a social studies presentation. Because it’s not just about a list of countries, not just about living in unexpected places. I lived in an entire cultural milieu that anyone who is not a part of a multi-national experience may have no knowledge of. And it is my entire context. Helps to frame, define and explain me with all my complicated edges and hidden corners. At least, it helps a little.

Like I said, I’m complicated.

There are essentially three reasons why someone who was born and raised in the USA might live in other countries while remaining a US citizen. (Outside of the jet-set filthy rich, royalty, and oligarchs - whose reasons and point of view us mere mortals will never understand.) If you remain a citizen of the United States but choose to live in another country you are doing so either in service to your nation, as a part of the military or the diplomatic core; or you are there for humanitarian purposes, which could be as a part of a non-profit or a religious mission; or you are there because you are a business man and you let your company know that you are willing to relocate internationally.

These people, particularly the business people, are referred to as Ex-Pats, which is short for Ex-Patriots. In the international world, it tends to be shorthand for civilian American living overseas. Within that term there are a number of items which are understood. The people in question have a dual-citizenship in more than just documentation. Their roots and family are in the US, and often spend time in both locations. Their personal culture is as much like their point of origin as possible, within the constraints of whichever nation they are in. Although they may enjoy where they live and feel fond affection for it, they do not tend to feel loyalty towards the country they are in, because it’s only a matter of time until they will be required to leave for other shores.

In my father’s time, you had little to no say regarding where you would be sent. After he signed up for international postings, the company hinted so heavily towards Germany that my mother and father spent their honeymoon there, and started learning German. Only to wind up in Venezuela. (Really really REALLY long ago. Guatemala came after that, when I was born.)

I’ve heard that it doesn’t really work like this much anymore, that companies began to see the logic in hiring people from the country to run things in the country, but I’m sure there’s still some level of management that steps off a big jet liner to tell people what to do.

I don’t know if this starts to paint a clearer picture. We lived in these countries, but never really felt like we were of them. I feel like a fraud when I think of myself as Latina, because even though I was born and raised there, I somehow feel I don’t have the right to claim it. Even when the Ex-pat falls in love with a country, retires there, and dies there, he will always be the gringo. If nothing else, then as a term of endearment.

So it’s an odd ivory-tower kind of world. There, but apart. Not exactly a tourist, but not exactly not a tourist. I lived in countries that had a lot of poverty and crime, and, most importantly, countries where you never wanted to have to depend on the police because you never knew whether you would end up getting shaken down for a bribe or actually assisted. This is not an exaggeration, this is simply the reality of living in what are politely referred to as developing nations.

So, for us little girls, parts of our lives were exactly like living in an ivory tower. It wasn’t like we could walk out our front door, or ride our bikes to the corner store, or stand on the street corner waiting for the school bus. Sometimes we had armed guards and drivers. Sometimes we lived in high-walled gated communities.

On the other hand, our standard of living was likely far higher than it would have been stateside. (Stateside is how ex-pats refer to the US.) And yes, as much as we might have lived a hands-breadth removed, we still lived in these amazing places full of color and traditions, and were often greeted with open arms by local people. Some of whom themselves lived their own version of ivory tower lives, wealthy and removed from the common populous. Some of whom worked for us, but treated us with a generosity of nature that made me feel that in some small way they thought of me as family.

I guess this is what academics might refer to as a colonial experience, but I never felt like I was colonizing anything. Most of the time I just felt like the odd duck out. Too brash and cranky to be liked, too poor to fit in with the rich locals, to rich to socialize with the poor.

Which is also an odd paradox. Because I can also tell you that the most welcome and care I ever felt was on those odd times my mother would let me go spend time with our maid’s families. Don’t misunderstand - we didn’t have a bunch of maids. We usually had a maid in each country we lived in, and my mom would sometimes let me go with them to their homes and to meet their families. My mom is a strong-willed woman who forms opinions of her own, and she was absolutely okay with sending us off. I don’t think many of her compatriots would have been.

For myself, I am really glad she did. Some of my best memories were in shanty-towns. There were so many new and interesting things to see, and so many people who were patient, caring, and generous. Because that is a Latinx tradition I can attest to - they love their young, even when they weren’t their own. In these dirt-floor places, I felt so much comfort that my memories of them will always be warm.

Far warmer than the ivory towers I regularly inhabited, with boredom, emotional pitfalls, school-yard pecking orders and sharp-toothed private-school-vicious classmates and teachers. I never really fit in with the people I was supposed to belong to. They didn’t really want me there, anyway. And that is definitely a theme that has followed me throughout my life, although as I grew it was something that I learnt to appreciate, and eventually I discovered that there are always other misfits around with whom I will get along just fine.

So that’s the scene. Cold ivory towers and warm folks, summers in California swimming pools, school in more than one language, never quite fitting in, almost always with loved ones a continent away, caught like the kid in the Pied Piper, a foot in each world, and never really ever in just one place. Complicated. At times uneasy, at times magical.

My parents divorced and I moved to California permanently when I was twelve. My father stayed in Venezuela, so for a time, the picture was reversed. I would spend summers and holidays with my dad, and live my daily life in California, doing all the things I couldn’t do before, like walking home from school, trick-or-treating, and learning things in only one language with teachers who were fun and friendly.

By the time I was about sixteen, I was ready to bury my past, call myself a California girl and un-complicate everything. I visited my father less and less, stopped speaking Spanish for so long I would get tongue-tied when I’d try to speak. In short, I moved on. I lived, graduated from high school, moved north to art school, even more north after that. And then, lived a whole ‘nother lifetime, and another one after that, as adult life complicates things and wanders on its own path, with little regard for any plans you might have had.

I am pretending you are the intrigued listener I spoke of at the start, a stranger at some dreary party who would like to hear about any and everything I might want to share, if nothing else, then because it is a welcome distraction from the stale canapés and cheap wine.

This first piece is intended to give you the backstory, the context of the stories that come next. Because finally, all these years later, I intend to write it down, in no particular order, not wasting much time on context and backstory and socio-political meaning. Through-lines and themes be damned. Just my life, experienced. Because actually I do have a ton of stories to tell. So wash down that miniature quiche with another glass of warm wine, sit back, and take it in.