To Home and Back to Home
From North Carolina to Scotland to North Carolina to Scotland
When we lived in Germany, for the first few months I experienced something unexpected: my jaws were almost constantly sore and exhausted. I had expected to feel generally tired from trying to get settled into a new country—finding an apartment, settling our son into kindergarten, learning the bus routes, figuring out where the shops were, and meeting new people, all while attempting to speak German. But why were my jaws so tired? I finally realized that it was from the physical act of speaking German, which happens more in the front of the mouth than American English does. Between my brain trying to remember der/die/das and verb endings and vocabulary, and my jaw trying its best to be deutlich (“clear”), I was worn out!
From North Carolina to Scotland
When we moved to Scotland, at least the language wasn’t going to be a challenge, right?
OK, my ears are still not fully adept at Scottish accents, but at least I can read English. That should make things easier! But when you are an immigrant to a new country, even one that (ostensibly) shares your first language, the first few months are a bombardment of cultural things you don’t know and are trying to figure out in real time. For instance, what is “tea”? I knew about the beloved beverage and the afternoon mini-meal with tiny sandwiches. The first time someone invited us over for “tea” and said to come around 5 p.m., I assumed that they meant the tiny sandwiches version of “tea” and was surprised that they had soups and salad and several hearty quiches and an Eton Mess for dessert. That seemed like quite a full meal for afternoon tea, but maybe they didn’t care for cucumber sandwiches? I was even more confused when a friend said that she was going to pick up a pizza for her kids for tea. I couldn’t make “pizza for tea” fit either category of “beloved beverage” or “afternoon mini-meal.” It was months before I realized a third meaning of “tea” is “evening meal.” (Also, “tea,” “supper,” and “dinner” are not necessarily interchangeable and can be distinct variations of “different things one eats in the evening at different times.”)
Driving is another example of culture exhaustion. Driving on the left side of the road is just the beginning. Roads are narrow with nonexistent shoulders. Parking spaces seem designed for bicycles, not cars. Road signs look like nothing I had seen before.
Shortly after moving here, I was waiting outside the boys’ primary school to pick them up in the afternoon. The bell was about to ring, but before I made it to the school gate the custodian came up to me, and he was clearly not best pleased: “Hey! What do you think you’re doing? You can’t park here! You’re not special!” I had no idea what transgression I had committed, but it seemed egregious. I remember feeling so tired and worn down and I just wanted to cry. I don’t think I’m special! I just have no idea what I’m doing. I can barely drive here and this road is so narrow that I’m terrified I’m going to hit another car, and I can’t understand what the teachers are telling me half the time, and I don’t understand the cultural dynamics of why it is acceptable to introduce your dog but not yourself, and mostly I just want to get my children and get back home and take a nap.
My offense was that I had parked on the squiggly white lines near the crosswalk, and parking there is not allowed in order to keep visibility clear for the crosswalk. Of course, the custodian was within his rights to scold me for parking there; he didn’t know that I had just moved to Scotland and had no idea what squiggly lines meant. But being an immigrant is tiring—a series of reminders that you don’t know what you’re doing and you’re not special.
When I go back to North Carolina, I love seeing family and friends. I love going to Target and eating Mexican food. I love the dogwoods. I noticed on my trips back that the part of my brain that was constantly working, constantly culturally translating, was able to turn off for a bit. I knew which shops carried which things. I knew where to find food I liked. I knew that “tea” had only one meaning—delicious, iced, sweet beverage. This is home.
From Scotland to North Carolina
Our trip to North Carolina last month was a feast of delights. I went to Target and ate Mexican food and saw dogwoods. But best of all was seeing so many family and friends. Each day was a gift of loved ones—cousins, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, sisters and brothers-in-law, parents, coworkers, friends from church, friends from the community, friends from college, friends from other parts of my life including one friend from Germany. I feasted on brunch and pizza and tamales and cake and homemade barbecue chicken and fried catfish and Bo’Berry biscuits and Asian tapas and Pelican snocones. I feasted on hugs and long conversations and my uncle’s jokes and game nights and worship at our church and seeing my friends’ children and being at work for a chapel service and the gift of time to be together in person.
The travel went smoothly, and even though I did not get upgraded to the posh civilized section of the plane on the way home I was fairly comfortable sitting in “slightly roomier peasant” class. Getting through the airports went well; I even managed our dash to the gates at Heathrow. (Thankfully this dash just required some rapid walking, since that is my top speed these days.)
From North Carolina to Scotland
Now we are back home in Scotland. Yes—home. We have British passports now. We have a house. I survived the driving exam process and have a license and I know what road signs and markings mean. I don’t park on the squiggly lines.
But that is not all I mean by calling this home. I mean the small feeling of satisfaction every time I drive home from St Andrews and crest the hill that looks out over the East Neuk villages from Kilrenny to Pittenweem and beyond to the Isle of May, and knowing that my home is nestled down there by the sea and that this beautiful view is part of my regular commute. I mean the delight of walking to the polling place in the village with my neighbors on election day and running into one of our local politicians and having a wee natter on the pavement. I mean being able to worship in person at our church. I mean having a hair stylist that I absolutely love. I mean popping into the coffeeshop and having the barista say, “Haven’t seen you in a wee while, Heather! Want your usual?”
I will always love North Carolina. But your heart and mind (and even your jaws and ears) can stretch to find love and connections and comfort in more than one place. It was good to go home to North Carolina. It is good to be home in Scotland.
Treatment Update
Twelve hours after arriving home in Scotland, I was back at Ninewells to resume my targeted therapy. My white blood cells enjoyed their holiday from treatment and had come roaring back. I also was back to neuro rehab, and soon I’ll begin the next stage of my rehab work. It will include me balancing on the Bosu ball and hitting balloons, which sounds like far more of a party than I think it will be in practice. I am grateful that I’ve maintained my progress and can keep trying to move forward.
This has also been a stretch of weeks filled with appointments and scans and tests. Some results are in, which have been encouraging. We have some key decisions to make regarding treatment; I’m still waiting for another appointment in the next week or so, and then I’ll give a fuller update on treatment issues. In the meantime, items for prayer include:
An appointment soon with the consultant here to discuss the scans and tests
Wisdom for treatment decisions
Progress with rehab
Thanks to my friend Emily for sending this awesome post. Alas, I don’t think that Dunkin’ Donuts infusion therapy is on my list of options.
A Song from Scotland
Steph Macleod is a Scottish singer-songwriter and mental health advocate with an amazing story of finding faith while homeless in the grip of addiction. His version of “How Great Thou Art” is probably my favorite.
This was the first time I was introduced to his story and his music, and I love the line, “When I found Jesus, he was holding on to me.”
Loved this update, and we all enjoyed watching the SNL link. Thanks. What a great meditation you've offered on home.
Heather
It was a blessing to see you, Dave and Andrew! I missed Evan. Continuing to pray for you all!