Jexit? Gays, Guns, Xenophobia, Heath Care, Homophobia, The United States, The United Kingdom, and The European Union

I’ve sat here for the last 36 hours not knowing how to think or feel. I’m furious, I’m hurt, and, for the longest period of time that I can remember, for at least a little while, I have had absolutely nothing to say. I mean, I’m a writer with a Political Science degree who was force-fed a diet of American Public Radio and Marlo Thomas (Free To Be You and Me) from the womb — you’d think I’d have something to say, immediately.

Nope. I spent most of Friday numb. I felt personally and acutely rejected by a majority of the English (and Welsh) and for the first time, I feel fundamentally unsafe in my adopted country, with my Polish sounding last name.

It isn’t so much that they rejected immigrants — which they did — it was the fundamental rejection of a specific relatively newly formed identity, one that I still cling to — that of being a citizen of the second largest economic, political, and trading bloc in the world.

A bit about me, to frame the ridiculously intimate way I have felt this rejection. I’m legally an American citizen, but I haven’t lived in the United States since I was 18 years old. Along the way, I stopped in Montreal to study at McGill University and I’ve never felt particularly “American,” but for my accent and love of all things Tina Fey because I grew up the son of a refugee.

At the end of World War II, my Belarusian grandfather escaped a camp on the Eastern front and fled to Germany. He refused to ever speak about the specifics of this event — so we’ve generally assumed it was a violent one.

From a nearby corner of Europe, terrified of what Stalin might do in his next crackdown on the Orthodox church, my great-grandfather, a bishop in the Polish Orthodox Church and his family — including my grandmother — made their way from a part of what is now Ukraine. My grandparents met somewhere in between, in a refugee camp in Germany — where my dad was then born.

They lived in Belgium, where my Aunt was born, granting her a — rare for our family — European passport, while the rest remained legally Stateless, while waiting for their passage to the US. When Dad was nine, they traveled, by boat, and settled in upstate New York. And at age 12, my father was granted his first legal citizenship, American, and he met my mother shortly thereafter. And then, after two children and an already long life together, they had their “whoopsie.”

My father wanted to name me Igor (ee-whore, like I was some kind of Electronic Baby Hooker), but by the grace of the Spaghetti Monster in the sky, my mother prevailed and I was given the most Western name of the three of us — James Patrick.

With this odd Orthodox Christian upbringing, where my dad tried and failed to teach me to speak Ukrainian (and I insisted instead on learning French and Latin, almost out of spite), I never quite felt at home growing up outside of Boston. New people always asked me if I was Jewish, then they asked if I was Greek, then they asked if I had actually made up the second largest single form of Christianity on the planet.

I was tired of feeling like the permanent outsider. That and I was also gay. And, as anyone who can remember, the 90s and the 2000s weren’t exactly a friendly period to be gay in. It’s an awful feeling to be 14 years old and have a president say that somehow your instinctual urges are destroying the fabric of America (oh, the poor fabric — it better not be mixed fiber, for their sakes).

That was until I first came to the UK in 2003. I had found a country of people who were MOSTLY like me, but, like I wanted to be, were able to point at something greater than themselves and say: “I belong to that.” It was the EU.

It sounds silly, but the European Union and I have a lot in common. We are both the specific products of the tumult and mass exodus caused by the destruction of World War II.

We are acutely aware of our history and how fragile our worlds can be — I am living in the UK with “Indefinite Leave to Remain as the Victim of Domestic Violence by a British Citizen.” If the European Union could be personified, I think we’d have such a good first date that we might even get busy — until I saw our Aunt Maria’s photo on the dresser and we realized just how closely related we were.

And now, a majority of the English, but not the Scottish or the Northern Irish, have divorced my cousin and loudly shout racist expletives at both of us, while trying to say “it’s not racist to talk about immigration” and ignoring that what they’re saying is we’re coming here stealing their jobs and their welfare (which IS racism and not a discussion of immigration at all because discussions require facts).

So, why am I sharing all of this? Well, with my day job, I can pretty much work from anywhere in the world, so, from my place of privilege, I choose to go and visit my family and friends in North America for the next few weeks.

I’m going to work, write, travel, and decide.

With such important things to ponder — like xenophobia, homophobia, gun crime, healthcare, and my general well-being on the line…

Do I take my cue from the English people and Jexit? Or do I stay and shout and fight for what I think is right?

This is a lot to process, and consider, and so, like a majority of the English, I’m going to spend some time thinking and writing about it. And, unlike 53.4% of the English, I will come to the best informed decision possible.

And, once a week, or so, have a bit of a catch up with you all to share my thoughts so far.

Right now, I genuinely have no idea which way this will go.