| Looking
Down the Barrel of My Second Irish Winter..... Page 2 |
| by Lori
Alexander |
| I watched
another American, more of a temporary migrant, swing like a pendulum between
loathing and loving her new home. One minute she appreciated the
opportunities available only in Ireland, heavily under the influence of
the roaring Celtic tiger, and the next moment she would find herself
feeling isolated and ready to board the next plane out. I was never able
to determine the precise ingredient that stokes her ambivalence.
Of my two
American acquaintances, one plainly lives in Ireland for good, while
the other seems to be only visiting. One is a dual citizen and
gushingly Irish, while the other seems more of a disgruntled itinerant.
I couldn’t really see myself in either pigeon hole. |
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| For the sake
of my kids, my sanity, and our future, I knew I had to figure out which
side of the fence I belonged on, or better yet, rig up some sort
of sturdy perch above it all.
It was something
of a banner day when I burned the last of the crates our possessions
were shipped in. I realized with a thump that I would never again
see another Kirkland’s diaper box, and that I probably couldn’t go home
even if I wanted to. With all the empty boxes burned, and pesky packing
peanuts finally swept away, our granny house ceased to be a storage shed.
It would begin its new life hosting the guests that would be coming to
visit us in Ireland.
In time, I
found that examining my expectations of my place within Irish society,
and comparing my own conclusions to the expectations of others, Irish and
Expat alike, to be the key to my contentment here. Had I not
been faced with such opposing opinions, I may never have begun to consciously
search for my own middle ground.
In retrospect,
my defining moment was this nonchalant question, lobbed at me in my own
kitchen, "Have you ever thought of joining an Expat club?" |
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| At the time,
my off the cuff reaction was, “No. I have to get used to living
here, don't I? Although, I suppose there’re certain things
I'll never get used to”.
By that point,
I had made a subconscious decision to start building a lasting framework
of friends, people that I would be sharing my children’s school days with,
family gatherings, and working with side by side. By then I had realized
our sleepy seaside village was surprisingly cosmopolitan, and even our
coffee mornings were something of an accidental Expat club.
I didn't need to go looking elsewhere for what had been right under my
nose.
I realized
that while the official ‘Expat’ world has very little to do with me, my
identity as an American in Ireland has become a fundamental component in
my view of myself. I get to remain undeniably American, and the way
I walk, talk and stand are impossible to mistake. |
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Offshore
Resources Gallery
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| I love wild
surf shorts. Having moved so frequently, my accent may be hard to nail,
but my choice in slang is pure Californian. I'm liberal, and I can't imagine
drastically altering any aspect of my personality.
Now, when chance
meetings include the question of “how long” I'm “visiting”
Ireland, I find my answer, “I live here” no longer sounds tentative.
I have no illusions that I will ever be “Irish” no matter what naturalization
papers might suggest, but my winter of discontent has passed.
All of these
realizations have persuaded me to get past my American/Expat/anthropology
lovin’ cut-and-dried preconceptions and start understanding the real Ireland. |
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