Where Am I Anyway? Stuck Between Two Worlds
Written by Marci Renée
Photo by Anotia Wang on Unsplash
Do you ever feel stuck? Torn between two different worlds—your passport world, where you were born and raised, and the world of your host culture, where you live and work?
I do, all the time, almost on a daily basis.
Hopefully you can relate to some, if not all, of the following short stories and “snapshots” of our lives as expats. You could probably tell many of your own!
It’s not easy to navigate this cross-cultural journey. Thankfully, however, there are things we can learn along the way to help us get unstuck, to become learners and observers of the cultures around us—our own and others.
“Plan on coming at 4:45 p.m. Our family eats dinner at 5 sharp,” the man told us, after extending an invitation for us to join his family for a meal that week.
I looked at my husband with raised eyebrows and wide eyes.
“Back ‘home,’ that’s typically when our kids are just getting back from school for an afternoon snack,” I told my husband in the car. “Then they do homework, go to soccer practice. We don’t usually eat until 8 or 9 at the earliest. I don’t even know if I can stomach a full meal at 5 p.m.”
I felt stuck between two worlds.
Where are we, anyway? I thought to myself.
“You aren’t pretty,” my Moroccan friend’s mother told me as we sat drinking sweet mint tea on the brightly colored faraches.
My heart sank. That is not what any woman wants to hear. Maybe it was my new olive green djellaba.
I wasn’t sure what to say.
“You are too skinny, “ she continued. “You need some fat, some meat on your bones.”
I sighed with relief. It suddenly occurred to me that different cultures have different ideas of beauty. In North Africa, rounder, fuller bodies represent beauty. That wasn’t always the case back in my home culture.
I felt stuck between two worlds.
Where are we, anyway? I thought to myself.
“You’re always late,” my mother said. “In North America, you have to be on time for doctors’ appointments and lunch dates.”
It’s true. After living in North Africa for so many years, I had become accustomed to a different, more fluid, notion of time. If we showed up ten minutes, thirty minutes, even an hour late, it was hardly noticed. Although it sometimes annoyed me when I was the hostess, I had actually grown to like the flexibility of time and the grace we extended to one another in my host culture for tardiness.
I felt stuck between two worlds.
Where are we, anyway? I thought to myself.
“Why won’t he look me in the eye when I talk to him?” I wondered. “That seems rude and disrespectful.”
I quickly learned that wasn’t disrespectful. It was actually respectful. In Arab cultures, it is not appropriate for a man to look a woman in the eye, and vice versa. It can be perceived as flirtatious.
Not only am I relieved that my friend’s husband doesn’t look me in the eyes, but I now am out of the habit of looking in the eyes of any man besides my own husband.
I feel stuck between two worlds.
Where are we, anyway? I thought to myself.
“Do you always wear long tunics and shirts?” my sister asked me as we got ready for the party.
“Yes, after living in a conservative culture for several decades, I have gotten used to being covered,” I told her. “I feel naked now going out in shorts and sleeveless tanks.”
My sister looked at me strangely, clearly not understanding anything I was saying.
I felt stuck between two worlds.
Where are we, anyway? I thought to myself.
“I can’t stay long. I need to pick up my kids from school,” I told my friend, Aicha, as I walked through her front door uninvited.
I had learned the hard way. There was no “stopping by” in North Africa. If you went to visit your friend for tea, you had better not have anything scheduled afterwards. You need margin, lots of margin. You need to be prepared to stay, to stay for a long time.
With a busy schedule—work, kids, soccer, homework, dinner—I had to build margins into my visits. It was completely counter-cultural, but I had no choice.
I couldn’t afford to spend three hours with my friend chatting about life, family, and food—even though three hours would have been great Arabic language practice.
This—the long and drawn-out visits—was an area of my host culture that I still struggled to adjust to. Rather, I always went to visit my friend one hour before I had to leave to pick up my kids from school. That way, I had to leave. I couldn’t stay for one more glass of tea, even when she pleaded and insisted strongly.
I felt stuck between two worlds.
Where are we, anyway? I thought to myself.
“Can we just stop by and say hello?” I asked. “We’re passing right through their neighborhood.”
“You can’t just stop by someone’s house like that. You have to call and ask if it’s okay to come over,” my friend explained.
“Really?” I guess I had forgotten that part of my passport culture. I had gotten used to stopping by unannounced at friends’ homes. It was also in their custom to stop by my house if they were passing through the neighborhood.
We quickly called and made arrangements to go to their home to say hello. We stayed for an hour, sitting and chatting. I kept waiting for the coffee, tea, and little cookies to arrive . . . even a glass of cold water. They didn’t.
I felt stuck between two worlds.
Where are we, anyway? I thought to myself.
“Why is she leaving half of my brownie, a chocolate chip cookie, and three bites of cake on her plate? She must not like my American desserts,” I said to myself.
On the other hand, I always finished my tomato and cucumber salad, my “triangle” of couscous, my fresh fruit, my m’simmon, my cold “sheep” lung ball. Whatever my Moroccan friends put on my plate, I ate it all. I didn’t want to offend the hostess. I didn't want her to think I didn’t like it. And, if she offered seconds, I would always say “yes” to please her.
I learned . . .
“You didn’t like the casserole I made?” my grandmother asked, a bit disappointedly.
“I loved it!” I told her. Then, I looked at the small square of food still sitting on my plate and chuckled. “In Morocco, if you finish your plate, it means the hostess didn’t feed you enough. You always have to leave a little bit on the plate to show that they served you more than you could eat. If you clear your plate, the hostess is obliged to fill it again!”
My grandmother laughed as I gobbled up the last bit of her creamed corn casserole.
“That’s my girl, clear your plate!” she said smiling.
I felt stuck between two worlds.
Where are we, anyway? I thought to myself.
Feeling Stuck?
Is there anyone else out there who wonders who they are or where they are? Sometimes, I’m confused. Sometimes I feel stuck, out of place . . . like a fish out of water.
Maybe you can relate.
Whether it be trying to balance the traditions and needs of your passport culture with your new life in your host culture, whether it be the jumble of foreign languages in your head, whether it be going “home” and facing the overwhelming reality of “reverse culture shock” . . .
Whatever it is . . . maybe you feel confused and “stuck between two worlds” too.
Let’s Take a Journey
Through a series of articles and stories on cultural awareness, let’s take a journey together—a journey among cultures.
As we walk, as we listen, as we observe, as we learn, as we imitate, as we compare, let’s consider what The Cultural Story-Weaver said. “It’s not better. It’s not worse. It’s not good. It’s not bad. It’s not right. It’s not wrong. It’s just different!” (The Cultural Story-Weaver)
Guest author, Marci Renée, along with her French husband and four boys, is a global nomad who has traveled to more than 30 countries and has lived in the United States, France, Morocco, and Spain. She loves to travel, speak foreign languages, experience different cultures, eat ethnic foods, meet people from faraway lands, and of course, write and tell stories. She is a published author of children's picture books, memoirs, short stories, and poetry.
You can find Marci and her books on her website.
"The Cultural Story-Weaver," at www.culturalstoryweaver.com