Disclaimer: No, I did not get any new body modifications. Relax.
This was my first Christmas holiday as a "working woman." I cringe, admittedly, upon using that phrase. Not only does it bring to mind the practitioners of an infamous trade, but it also implies that a woman needs to be defined as "working" in a mid-post-feminist America. Do I call my brother, also a recent post-grad, a "working man?" The answer to that semi-rhetorical question is: No, because that would be weird.
Ahem.
To put it in a way more acceptable to the writer, this was my first Christmas holiday in which the holiday was not a break from schooling, but from work. I used paid vacation days. Vacation days!
It was not, due to my relatively recent elevation to the working world, a very long vacation. Comparatively, at least. Rather than the 2+ weeks of holiday bliss, I had 1.
My parent’s current residence is in North Carolina, amidst that fabled land below the Mason-Dixon Line known as "the South." While, in my opinion, North Carolina is far less South-y than say, Georgia, it still brings out the twang in me. Which irritates my Boston-born mother to no end.*
*This is not the singular source of irritation between me and my mother. Other subjects include, but are not limited to: reciting Lord of the Rings dialogue along with the actors, tattoos, and my use of the staircase as temporary storage space.
Beyond "y’all" and the thickening of said twang when I’m emotional, it really doesn’t mar/beautify my speech in a particularly noticeable manner in Michigan, especially with people who are used to me. But, combined with other various linguistic idiosyncrasies, it does leave me with rather unusual speech patterns.
Thanks to the South, "y’all" comes to me naturally, while "you guys" sets my teeth on edge, and, finally, I’ve made my peace with "ain’t."
Thanks to a mix of the South and my mother, I now pronounce "aunt" as both "awnt" and "ant," depending on a context unbeknownst to myself.
Thanks to my mother, a barrette is a "BAR-ette," not a "buh-rette," tennis shoes are sneakers, and soda is soda.
Thanks to the UK, I use "whilst" in everyday conversation and exchange the awkward "apartment-mates" for "flatmates."
Thanks to Italy, I use "alora" (translation: "Oh well") with a sigh.
Thanks to Japan, I tell my friends "ganbatte" before a test or paper. I also mutter in Japanese when my friends think it’s funny that I don’t speak Spanish.
Thanks to the military community, I’ve picked up a wealth of acronyms that now have very little bearing on my daily existence. PCS, AFN, FISC, NEX, EUCOM…
And then there are the non-linguistic things that I’ve collected over the years. Like talking with my hands, which I picked up in Italy (I have a good joke about that, if you want to hear it). Or pointing at my nose when referring to myself, a Japanese gesture. Why do I tend to rush across the street, even if I’m using the pedestrian crosswalk? That’s a toss-up between Naples’ mopeds and London’s bicycles.
So, now that I’ve been more-or-less settled in West Michigan for the past four years, I wonder how I have been affected—and how I will continue to collect language and habits. Already, I can sort-of tell you what TULIP stands for, and what the CRC is. I know a handful of Dutch foods (mostly sweets, but that’s to be expected from me. I pay attention the important things). I’ve mastered—though still resent—the ubiquitous "Michigan left." I’m slowly becoming comfortable with driving in snow. I understand that when people are "from Holland," they mean a town, not a country.
But I refuse to call soda "pop." While I do enjoy an everyday usage of an onomatopoeia, it just sounds wrong to me.
This murky mix of what-have-you obviously comes from my rather unusual upbringing. But as I continue to settle into a lifestyle outside the community I’ve known for the last four years—I think about where I was this time last year, on the tail-end of the adventure that was college. How have I changed? How will I continue to change? What effect will a more permanent location have on my identity?
In January 2012, I boarded a bus still embroiled in a rather emotionally distraught time for me. This bus took me, along with thirty-odd (and, let’s be honest, just plain odd) adventurers to New England. As this was an academic trip, we were each given a journal in order to record our state of mind. I thought I’d clean up the entry regarding our first day in Plimoth, as it has a rather uncanny bearing on my train of thought almost exactly one year later:
The last time I was in Plymouth, I was eight years old. My dad and I, a budding American history buff, drove up from Newport Rhode Island. I really don’t remember much about the trip beyond being mildly disappointed with Plymouth Rock and looking at the replica Mayflower. But I do remember how Plymouth and Newport made me feel, even as a child. Both seashore towns were quintessentially New England.
Such a distinct identity, I suppose, was the goal to begin with—the Pilgrims were Separatists, after all. They wanted an identity of their own. But it was only a religious identity—so for Emerson, the identity of the American Scholar is still unformed. And centuries later, the American Identity is still amorphous, blurred by multiculturalism and the deconstruction of stereotypes in the name of equality and political correctness (the goodness of both, of course, are still hotly contested). There really isn’t any solidity to identity in America—it has to be built, based on region, socio-economic class, gender, credo, or even on a sports team.
But here in New England, some solidity remains in the buildings, the heirlooms, even in family names. No wonder Mayflower families are so proud. Their ancestors started the American quest for identity. I wonder if that makes them a step ahead of the rest of us.
I think a lot about how one’s community affects identity. Community is growing more and more unstable in an age of a global economy and social media, and as someone who’s already been greatly affected by that instability, I feel like it’s a topic that requires due consideration.
On that same trip to New England, our group had a now-infamous conversation on the topic of community—a subject, I must admit, that is a rather sore one for me. As previously stated many, many times, I didn’t have the typical American upbringing. I’m not even sure I can be truly qualified as a Third Culture Kid, having been moved around so often. In college, people were often stymied by my background, more comfortable with missionary kids than military ones. As I tried to explain how I defined my community, I found myself on the defensive. How could they understand? Most of my companions, having grown up in one place, had always around the same people until college. And when they did go to college, they often had previous family, church, or school ties to support them. Community has always been defined for them. They were born into it, placed into it by people in power or by circumstances beyond their control.
However, most people understood, I felt, the concept of choosing friends and schools—after all, even if they hadn’t done it on a semi-regular basis, they had gone through a similar process freshman year. What really got some proverbial hackles up was the concept of choosing a church.
First, I do understand that the term "church shopping" may seem callous in light of the importance of a church community. But that is the term I’ve grown up with.
Second, circumstances surrounding my high school years make choosing a church an incredibly personal subject for me, something that’s tied—surprise!—to my identity. First off, know that I was blessed with dedicated teachers, good friends, faithful Sunday School and youth group leaders, and great experiences in Georgia. But the theology of the school and its sponsoring church was incredibly oppressing. I spent most of those years confused, torn between the conservative theology presented to me six days a week, and the openness of the non-denominational churches I had been raised in. I’ve already talked about the effect it had on my reading and writing, but this struggle also had a colossal effect on my faith identity.
I won’t beat around the bush: I hated going to church in high school. There were a lot of factors involved. I struggled with my attention issues during the long sermons, my mind screaming for freedom. And the people my age, though they were kind, had (for the most part) been attending the same church with the same families (most of whom were related by blood or marriage) for their entire lives. It was an unintentional clique whose walls I never seemed to transcend. And there was just so many ideas and rules that my heart just couldn’t accept.
It didn’t help that the school and the church were almost the entirety of my community. Six out of the seven days of the week revolved around this environment. And so, while I made wonderful, wonderful friends, the environment itself often made me feel like an outsider. I felt so incredibly alone in my struggle. A lot of my identity during that time was formed in reaction to the negative emotions I had to deal with while I was there.
By the time I went to college, my faith was hanging by a thread. It was only by the grace of God and the change of scene that kept me from washing my hands of Christianity and settling with agnosticism. I felt burned out by church, disgusted with all of the rules—both written and unwritten. Going to church freshman year was a rare occurrence, something that didn’t sit well with some of my new friends. They meant well, but it was difficult to explain how much I needed a break from church.
It sounds terrible, I know. But I needed to stay away. I needed to wrestle with the anger and the bitterness. And it took a while. My junior year, I started to make a conscious effort of increasing my church attendance. And I—wait for it—chose a church.
After two years of thinking and growing, I knew that I needed openness and honesty in a church. I needed a church that didn’t shy away from the grit and grime in life, that didn’t hide behind a façade of perfection and certainty. I needed a church where the messages had applicability and a firm foundation in the Bible. I needed a church with joy. Junior year, after going to a church with one of my friends who owned a car, I felt like I had found such a place.
But when I mentioned the idea of choosing a church last January, I felt attacked. Instead of understanding the years of struggle and prayer and crying out to God that led up to the point where I felt ready to rejoin a faith community, it seemed that my decision was taken as being based purely on shallow preferences. I understand where that misconception can be found—how many churches have been ripped apart over minor differences? With such a large group, I had no opportunity to defend myself. And even if I had been given the opportunity, how could I explain such a personal decision without bringing up parts of myself I wasn’t ready to show? Parts of myself that were (and are) still being shaped by abiding joy, deep pain, and everything in between?
With all of that weighing on me, I’ve been thinking. And a year later, my identity has continued to grow under the influences of region (West Michigan), socio-economic class (entry-level employee), gender (female), credo (Christianity), and sports team (none). It’s influenced by the choices I make, the way I spend my time, and the incredible distance between myself and my family. It’s influenced by the new friends I make and the old friends who are tied by affection and social media. It’s influenced by my faith, by the church I attend, and the times (both quiet and not) that I spend with God.
In a year, where will I be? Honestly, I don’t know. But I have to think about it. Because where I’ll be next year might be where I’ll be in five years, in ten. Now that I’m a post-grad, the possibility of permanence is more and more likely. It’s time for a career and (hypothetically) a family. I have to build my community with patience and wisdom, because it’s going to stick with me for a long, long time.
I know that I can’t take this lightly, not when our communities hold such power in forming our identities. You can hear the evidence in my "y’alls," in my heaving sigh of "alora," but it’s also so much more than just a split of the tongue.
