I can’t see across the sea but I can feel across it.

Cw
Cw
Aug 24, 2017 · 4 min read

An English friend of mine from New York sent me a text this afternoon, it was a picture of some dairy products on the counter in her parents house in London accompanied by the words; real milk, real ice-cream, real chocolate. After recovering from the instant seizure of nostalgia that catapulted down my spine I spotted something else that seemed inherently ‘real’ in comparison to the Americanized lifestyle I have become accustomed to: a plug.

It struck me suddenly how bizarre yet apt it is that a plug could seem more real than the socket I currently use to charge my electronics. Even the little off/on switch seemed quaint and resourceful against the two holes in the walls here. I am aware that elsewhere in the world you need a multi adapter to travel around, but this isn’t about that, this is the realization that after 7 long years in New York City I still look at an English plug and think ‘ahhh Bisto’. (An English reference to instant Gravy).

I remember in high school studying the poem ‘Mother’s tongue’, it displayed the agony of trying to find who you are in a new culture with a new language, settling in to the realization in the end that your roots are sewn in to the very fabric of your being and you will always have your Mothers tongue even if you have forgotten them. ‘How could you forget’ I thought at the time, ‘stop moaning if it was your choice’ my little pea sized intellect was squealing.

Perhaps it was naive to think that in moving countries I wouldn’t leave myself vulnerable for such a conundrum. Did I assume that the USA being an English speaking country would not have a colossally different impact on my development as an adult than England, maybe I did, I must have. I guess I just didn’t realize that I would feel the scraps of isolation on my skin 84 months after living here.

Of course we use different plugs or sockets. It’s not just the national grid that is wired differently, it’s the people. Don’t misunderstand me, it’s not for better or worse, I merely stand on my little podium tonight telling you that even though the people are lovely, even though the weather is marginally better, I have realized I don’t quite fit in and never will.

Last night at a 10 person dinner I sat across the way from the visiting birthday girl, an English friend from London, the rest of the party were American. After telling a long story which rounded out to her saving a few pennies in the supermarket she got up and patted her right butt cheek and I nearly spat out my wine laughing. No one but us knew that the stupid little pat on the bum was thanks to the most banal tv advertisement running for the last 20 years for ASDA Price in the UK, we laughed and laughed and then suddenly I was overwhelmed with sadness. I would never make that joke now. The slow disintegration of English-isms have taken their toll and I stand now waist deep in limbo land, unable to make references to anything of childhood America yet theres not an ear thirsty in shouting distance of my daily life that would welcome an Iceland joke or a cheeky Nando’s reference.

Last night when I got home I made a tea, there was a thunderstorm with fork lightening, so I snuggled up in bed to watch. How extraordinary that a little Island 3,000 miles away could have shaped me in such strong limestone that the melting heat of the city produces just a bitter tear rather than reduce me into an emollient liquid ready to mould to an American shape.

I can’t help but notice the US spelling on my computer as I write about the English language and life, all the time it’s pestering me to replace the S with a Z. Ahhhhhh I don’t even know which spellings are mine anymore because I don’t know which words I have acquired on which side of the pond. Fuck.

Zadie Smith wrote a remarkable more eloquent essay on this matter, summing up her experience of ordering food and your corner shop customs, when to tip, why to tip, fuck tipping. Read it.

I do however, thanks to Zadie Smith and other literary figures feel that the the Atlantic gap for me is beginning to adhere… I am the better for truly knowing and understanding two cultures. I am a New Yorker. I am exasperated if a delivery takes more than 20 minutes, no one in their right mind should turtle walk in front of me and I’ll eat from any food truck I pass providing cash is actually in my wallet. I only ever thought the Thames could run through my veins, I think, however, I have to admit that the hudson river joins the Thames, dancing in harmony through the Atria’s of my heart that are now not only made out of tea bags and hobnobs but partly sour patch kids and bagels too.

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