Being yourself — When it’s normal at home but weird in America

I have to be more Scottish than usual on Saturday night.
And when I say have to, I mean I can. And when I say I can, I mean I will.
Because my wife and I are attending a black tie event and in this context my thoughts run as follows:
1. Black tie means wearing a tuxedo.
2. I don’t own a tuxedo. Mainly because I hate tuxedos.
3. Scottish Black tie means you wear a kilt.
4. I own a kilt.
Wearing a kilt in Scotland isn’t an everyday occasion, much like wearing a tuxedo in the United States is reserved for special events.
In Scotland, kilts are for weddings and rugby matches. You don’t get extra points for wearing one, but you’re not given a hard time either.
There’s no suggestion that you’re trying to fool anyone, no comparison to Australian actors in Braveheart. It’s just a kilt.

In the US, kilts get a spit-take reaction.
It’s harder to wear one here, not because in Trumpland you get shot/arrested for looking different (not yet, not all the time) but because America can’t believe I’m okay wearing one.
American women are okay with my kilt. They know what a skirt is, and they know a kilt isn’t it.
American men are by turns horrified and astonished, because American men don’t wear skirts.
Of course, this is a taste of my own medicine for laughing at America planting a flag in her front yard, and this is how I explain my lack of self-consciousness about my kilt. America thinks there’s nothing weird about putting a flag outside their house, because she’s American. She spent every school day swearing allegiance to her flag — it feels like a part of her, she has no problem showing it off.
In Scotland, we don’t swear allegiance to flags. Or kilts. But the kilt is in my DNA, it’s been passed down.

I was told that I might become more patriotic, more ostensibly Scottish when I moved away. I don’t think that’s happened, but I have become more conscious of my family, mainly because I moved away from them.
That’s a hard one, because I have no blood here, no one who’s known me right from the start. My wife is more understanding of my ways than I have any right to expect, but she is still an American girl and I am still just a Scottish boy.
My Scottish identity is less about the country and more about my name, and names — if you haven’t seen Outlander — is a big deal where I’m from.
So for me, the kilt isn’t so much about my country but my family. And yet…Scottish stuff can look weird in the US. It can look like the immigrant is trying too hard.

If you see me on Saturday, rockin’ that kilt (and the bow tie I’ve spent the last two weeks learning how to tie), please know that I’m not wearing it because I think I’m better than you.
It’s just me not forgetting where I came from, it’s just a little more of my Scottish window showing. (And I’ll wear a kilt pin my father gave me, to help ensure I don’t show more of my Scottish window than is appropriate.)

Anyway, American men, if you’re feeling jealous of my kilt, don’t worry. I’ll wear a heavy kilt, shirt, vest, wool coat and socks, and it will be a brisk 98 degrees.
I will undoubtedly melt, and America will look down at me, examine her reflection in my plaid puddle, and decide that she’s better off loving her flag and men in penguin suits.
Teacher Hamish
Tried Working English?
