Expatriatism In The Time Of Trump: Why I Refuse To Stay In America

By Arizona Bell

Since I could remember, I wanted to name my (imaginary) daughter Berlin. I have no idea why. There was no real inspiration or story behind it. It just was. Whenever someone, usually a partner, asked me what I would want to name my future kiddos, I would utter with zero hesitation — Berlin.

When they asked why, I shrugged and murmured, “Dunno. I just like it.” While I am a dual citizen of America and Germany and have traveled to Deutschland more times than I can count, never once have I been anywhere close to Berlin. Don’t know a thing about the city other than its wall. My family lives in a tiny village in Bavaria, about a 4.5-hour train ride from Berlin, and we never made it that direction.

The first time I even considered that never going to Berlin was a mistake was when I asked my friend — who had quite literally travelled the world — which town or city, after seeing them all, would be her first choice to live in. Immediately, she nearly shouted, “Berlin! 100%!” The second time I realized it was a mistake was when I was just 20 in Munich, and bellied up to my very first gay bar. My friend and I were young and figuring ourselves out — at the time, we referred to ourselves as “bi” — and a foreign city seemed like just the place to test these waters. After chatting…