Yesterday, I celebrated my first 4th of July outside of the United States. Celebrated might not be the right word; there were no fireworks, no hotdogs, no lazy summer afternoon barbecues, no red-white-and-blue popsicles/fruit salads/fingernails beyond my facebook feed, no beer-bellied drunks shouting random nationalist obscenities (wait, I take that back- there were a few of those, but they were Brazilian and celebrating their World Cup win over Colombia), no marshmallows or Star-Spangled anything. Being an expat is weird that way.
As an American living in Argentina, I've learned that a country looks much different from the outside than it does on the inside, and the US is the rule rather than the exception. "America" in Argentina, at the moment, is some blend of Captain America movies, the occasional news of school shootings, dollars, Katie Perry pop music, and buitres (vultures, as they refer to the debt settlement crisis). Most of the daily things that define and explain my (or your) everyday life don't make the 5,600 mile multimedia trek.
I tried to change that in our last English class, making apple pie and sharing regional trivia, music and other references, and then compiling a list of prayer requests for the US and Argentina. Basically, I shared what I know/knew about being American.
And I realized that it's complicated.
22 years in one country (I still maintain that Oregon is more similar to Argentina than it is to Tennessee) have shaped me in ways I still don't entirely understand. Nearly everything- my accent, my assumptions about what is normal/good in life, my stature, my unpronounceable name- can be somehow traced back to my homeland. I've always been somewhat aware of this, and being a Christian does (should) give me an outsider-lens on my own nation, because my primary citizenship is in the Kingdom of Heaven, which, inconveniently, does not award tangible passports.
The US, however, does. It has given me a passport, good education, ridiculous amounts of economic and political security, and acres of public land I can pretend are all mine. It's not perfect, but eh, governments are what happen when you leave people in charge of things. I'm glad to be from there.
But I'm also glad to be here, living in Argentina. That doesn't have to be a contradiction- just a decision that I can and will be happy wherever I live.
......................................................................................................................................
Maybe Rebeca, my ten year old neighbor from Peru, explained it best. We were about to watch the Argentina-Switzerland game, and everyone was putting on their jerseys and painting their faces with celeste and white. Everyone, that is, except Rebeca.
She tiptoed up to my room, and with a worried look on her face said that she'd come because "you'd understand...you're not Argentine either." Turns out, while she wanted to cheer and watch the game, she felt like it would be disloyal to Peru, or worse, that cheering would mean she wasn't Peruvian enough anymore.
"You'll always be Peruvian- or as much of a Peruvian as you want to be. Just like I'll always be American", were the clumsy words that came out of my mouth, but they seemed to cheer her up. "So I can cheer for Argentina, too?" she asked, with a bit more confidence on her face. "Definitely."
........................................................................................................................................
Being American means that I have the gift of a home and a history. Living abroad means that I get to make a home and create history wherever I go. Following Jesus is a bit of both.
With that said, I don't mind "celebrating" the 4th with apple pie and an Argentine jersey.
*and by American, I do mean from the United States. 'American' technically can refer to someone from any part of North, Central, and South America, but my native country has 'America' as a prominent part of its name and initiated the colonial independence wave, so if anyone could have a trademark on the adjective, it should be us. Sorry-not-sorry.
 |
| Celebrating Argentina's win, as an American. Yes, I am fully aware of the irony. That's the point of this post. |
I tried to change that in our last English class, making apple pie and sharing regional trivia, music and other references, and then compiling a list of prayer requests for the US and Argentina. Basically, I shared what I know/knew about being American.
And I realized that it's complicated.
22 years in one country (I still maintain that Oregon is more similar to Argentina than it is to Tennessee) have shaped me in ways I still don't entirely understand. Nearly everything- my accent, my assumptions about what is normal/good in life, my stature, my unpronounceable name- can be somehow traced back to my homeland. I've always been somewhat aware of this, and being a Christian does (should) give me an outsider-lens on my own nation, because my primary citizenship is in the Kingdom of Heaven, which, inconveniently, does not award tangible passports.
The US, however, does. It has given me a passport, good education, ridiculous amounts of economic and political security, and acres of public land I can pretend are all mine. It's not perfect, but eh, governments are what happen when you leave people in charge of things. I'm glad to be from there.
But I'm also glad to be here, living in Argentina. That doesn't have to be a contradiction- just a decision that I can and will be happy wherever I live.
......................................................................................................................................
Maybe Rebeca, my ten year old neighbor from Peru, explained it best. We were about to watch the Argentina-Switzerland game, and everyone was putting on their jerseys and painting their faces with celeste and white. Everyone, that is, except Rebeca.
She tiptoed up to my room, and with a worried look on her face said that she'd come because "you'd understand...you're not Argentine either." Turns out, while she wanted to cheer and watch the game, she felt like it would be disloyal to Peru, or worse, that cheering would mean she wasn't Peruvian enough anymore.
"You'll always be Peruvian- or as much of a Peruvian as you want to be. Just like I'll always be American", were the clumsy words that came out of my mouth, but they seemed to cheer her up. "So I can cheer for Argentina, too?" she asked, with a bit more confidence on her face. "Definitely."
........................................................................................................................................
Being American means that I have the gift of a home and a history. Living abroad means that I get to make a home and create history wherever I go. Following Jesus is a bit of both.
With that said, I don't mind "celebrating" the 4th with apple pie and an Argentine jersey.
*and by American, I do mean from the United States. 'American' technically can refer to someone from any part of North, Central, and South America, but my native country has 'America' as a prominent part of its name and initiated the colonial independence wave, so if anyone could have a trademark on the adjective, it should be us. Sorry-not-sorry.
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