Borderlander

I remember the first time I felt full of love for my adopted homeland. I thought, very honestly, I think I was born in the wrong place. I was meant to be British. This thought occurred to me sometime after the novelty of hearing British accents on the telly and all around me most of the time wore off, but sometime before any sort of homesickness had set in.

Now, after the long wait for my indefinite leave to remain, my crush has grown into the comfort of really finding this place home. The realisation that I could happily live within its borders for the rest of my days–although I’d probably still need to travel. I don’t think my wanderlust has been totally quenched. I don’t know if I could adequately put either state of mind into words, outlining the differences, and showing the connections where one has grown out of the other. I love my new home, and I’ve found my new home.

But I also realise that I can never go back to the US and really find myself wholly of that place. I’ve lived elsewhere before, but always as an outsider, and never expecting to remain for more than a short time. While I was changed before, the change was more on an intellectual level, or to add layers of curiosity and worldiness to the stable core. I have been altered by my time as an immigrant here in a much more profound way.

Parts of me are unshakeably American. Parts of me will forever be of this new home of mine. For that reason, I can never view myself of one place or another. The same old immigrant story, borderlanders each and every one of us.