Say my name, say my name

Having just hit the four-year mark of living “far, far away,” I’ve been wrestling with my American-ness lately. Not in terms of politics or current affairs, just generally about where my American identity appears on the Venn diagram of me.

Culture is easiest to see when you step outside of it. Having a culture is what gives that exciting electricity when looking out the window of a cab on the way from the airport in a new place. Sometimes stepping out of one’s culture reveals that deeply held truths are actually just opinions. I see this in the flares of annoyance I feel around unnecessarily time-consuming recycling systems (my kingdom for a single-stream receptacle with curbside pick-up!) or the unspoken social conventions when meeting someone in a public doorway (clearly it makes sense to hold the door…or maybe not).

I’ve made some accommodations to my new homeland. I’ve set my calendar app to start my week on Mondays. I celebrate Easter Eve. (Don’t ask why, because I don’t know.) I make stronger coffee, and I try to drink it sitting down. It just happened.

Other concessions are harder to make. I still prefer to American books, podcasts, TV and movies. It’s not just a lazy language thing, but the settings and the references. It’s about seeing the world with an American gaze.

There’s another aspect of cultural identity I’ve been thinking about lately: its purpose of providing contours to my otherwise diffuse psyche, like personality eyeliner. A lifetime of fourth of July sparklers, yellow school busses and two-for-Tuesday rock blocks has resulted in a very particular person who is me. If I let this container go, will I still be me? Of course I will, but will I really?

But what happens when cultural identity is not so much a vase for our bouquet of personal quirks, but more of a box, closing us off? Can it be made permeable? I think so. With little conscious effort, the box is becoming more of a butterfly net.

Take my name, for instance, for which I have most definitely not nailed down a consistent pronunciation. Some days I introduce myself and pronounce its ‘r’ with such an American accent that I risk swallowing my tongue. Other days I’m happy to let it softly tap the roof of my mouth, behind my front teeth, in the way that my new language wants it to be.

Some days the container is more permeable than others. I feel slightly more invisible, more diluted, but also more connected.

I have other containers. Woman. Mother, even Special Needs Mother. Employee. Nearing 50. Immigrant. Each one has its own comforts, its own limitations.

I’d be really curious to hear from others whose identities have become more like butterfly nets. What made you aware of your containers? Did you find parts of you that transcend labels? What are they like?

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Overcoming paralysis with a single step

In a recent stress dream, I sat in an airport coffee shop knowing I was supposed to board a plane, but with no recollection of when the it was going to take off or from which gate. Despite being surrounded by information counters and departure displays, I just sat and sat, paralyzed and ashamed, with no sense that there was anything I could do.

Of course, these stress dreams usually occur for a reason.  My son has been getting hurt lately due to an unusual symptom that makes him fall down at sudden noises, and I’ve known for a while that it’s time to do something about it if I want to keep him safe. But the anecdotes I’ve heard from other parents who have kids with this rare syndrome have given me the impression that there aren’t really any good solutions, and each one caused its own negative feeling. The options appeared to me to be as follows: have him start using a wheelchair (makes me sad to think of limiting his mobility on purpose), start on heavy-duty personality-deadening anti-psychotic medication (ugh!), finding a helmet or brace or full body bubble wrap (makes me worry that he will incur even more stares than normal), or collaborating with industry for new applications for existing technology for sound-blocking headphones (makes me feel exhausted just thinking about it), etc, etc. Or I could just doing what I’m doing now, holding my son’s hand whenever he is standing up, even in the house (which is making me feel strung out). So I have been doing nothing, just sitting at the airport waiting to miss the plane.

This morning my husband and I had a quick huddle: I would ask the parent community of my son’s syndrome for their advice, my husband would research headphones. Within minutes of posting my inquiry to the Facebook group (“Help! It’s time! Tell me what you did and help me figure out what to do!”) I had responses. Not perfect answers, but ideas. I realized that many of my fears were completely exaggerated. The drugs weren’t all bad. There was a special walker that could work. The wheelchair wasn’t the worst thing. And most of all, there was company and commiseration.

My recent dream hit all my nightmare buttons: being late, unprepared and disorganized, inconveniencing and disappointing others, appearing and actually being incompetent (two separate but equally humiliating fears). But what really scared me in the dream was observing myself be unable or unwilling to do anything about it, the acceptance of paralysis. Today reminded me that there are plenty of times I’m scared stiff, and that sometimes all I need to do is to take just one small step, especially when that step is asking for help and companionship. Because being afraid is bad, but being paralyzed by that fear is the real nightmare.

Do you have a scary aspect of your child’s care or development that’s got you frozen? What small action could you take that could help you get unstuck–even if it’s as simple as asking for company?