What do a football supporter, a politician, Michael Jackson, and a chimpanzee have incommon? Indeed, they all have a place they call home or, in case of the chimpanzee, a place where they feel at home. All of the above have the bliss of being able to live anywhere on the entire globe, yet always belonging to some particular country they consider most dear. However, there are also pitiful, wretched creatures like myself that are somewhat confused as to where they belong. I bear the agony of being to some extent a stranger wherever I go.
Just recently, during the Soccer World Cup 2006, I was once again reminded that my heart is neither Czech or German, nor American. Completely uncertain whether I should cheer “Kdo neskáče, není Čech”, scream “Oh, wie ist das schön!” or simply be patriotic without actually knowing how soccer is played, I decided to enjoy all the games in silence. Not too long ago, the Czech Republic played the U.S. in the tennis Davis Cup and again I followed the matches motionlessly on my couch.
This is only the tip of the iceberg. My issue starts at the most basic question; a question that probably all of us are exposed to numerous times throughout our lives. A question so central, yet so simplistic that it almost hurts: Where are you from? A simple one-word response is sufficient for a majority of people while I have to come up with a soliloquy, explaining that I was born in Germany, my mother is Czech and my father was born in the Ukraine but in fact he is a U.S. citizen, which would then also make me American. Usually by the time I finish my curriculum vitae all I see is confused faces. The other day during Economics class our teacher assigned a paper in which we had to choose the country that we feel strongly about and once again I was the only one who spent half of the class contemplating.
All these trivial everyday situations clearly show that I am basically a stranger anywhere I go. Over the years that I have spent elucidating my nationality to others I found two possible answers to the question that torments me everytime it is posed. I put all my hopes in these responses as I expected them to save me some time so that I could dedicate myself to the more important things in life. Almost an entire year I was answering the pernicious question with the following two statements: “I’m Jewish” or “I’m sort of cosmopolitan”. At times I used the seemingly clever combination of the two above: “I’m a cosmopolitan Jew”. Even the friendly smile I was putting on while asserting this phrase wouldn’t prevent the logical consequence of my vis-à-vis craving an explanation so that I was forced to illustrate my origin in greater depth anyway. After numerous awkward conversations I quickly drew the conclusion that my shortcuts just don’t seem to work, not to mention that they are not grammatically correct answers to the question: “Where are you from?”
Sometimes I wish I were of a particular nationality, having both parents coming from that specific country so that there would be no doubt about where I am from whatsoever. Despite all the complications in my life that result from my cosmopolitism, I am relatively proud of my multinationality. Having lived in the Czech Republic for more than a decade, I have been able to observe quite a peculiar phenomenon among the country’s Romany population. Even though a majority of the recent generations was born within the Czech borders most of these people are desperately trying not to be labeled as “Czech”. They insist on the fact that they are Roma and thus not part of any particular country. The same sort of behavior can be observed among the African Americans in the United States. Some – I should probably say a minority – still refuse to be considered American, arguing that their roots are African. Even in Germany, the country I was born in, a similar trend is quite common among the minority of Turkish immigrants.
The question that arises from these sets of examples is what in fact constitutes a majority? Sticking with the model of Turks that is pertinent to Germany, it is quite evident that the majority in this case are the people of German origin. Nevertheless, this bulk is composed of several fragments itself: blue- or brown-eyed, left- or right-handed, male or female, tall, short, skinny and obese people. The answer is blowing in the wind.
Indeed, nationality can be quite irrelevant when it comes to the concept of being a stranger. I attend the International School of Prague where there is an amount of different nationalities that largely exceeds my knowledge of numbers. Only few of the students, however, would in fact call the Czech Republic their home. Even fewer actually speak the language; hence a great part of the students would most likely consider themselves strangers in this country. This is where my cosmopolitism turns out to be handy: I can profit of the advantage of speaking Czech and knowing a tiny bit about the local culture, albeit I was not born here.
Eeach and every single one of us had the experience of being a stranger in some particular environment at least once, whether it was something as banal as a vacation. I dream of the day when a UFO lands on the field close to my house and strange, green figures climb out of the spaceship. One of the aliens comes up to me and starts speaking a language completely unknown to me, yet I am miraculously able to understand it. The outlandish character tells me that he is an extraterrestrial coming in peace to visit the earth. “Weird,” I answer, “Until now I always thought I was the extraterrestrial.” The green dwarf looks at me and says: “No, you look just like any other earthling.”
Just recently, during the Soccer World Cup 2006, I was once again reminded that my heart is neither Czech or German, nor American. Completely uncertain whether I should cheer “Kdo neskáče, není Čech”, scream “Oh, wie ist das schön!” or simply be patriotic without actually knowing how soccer is played, I decided to enjoy all the games in silence. Not too long ago, the Czech Republic played the U.S. in the tennis Davis Cup and again I followed the matches motionlessly on my couch.
This is only the tip of the iceberg. My issue starts at the most basic question; a question that probably all of us are exposed to numerous times throughout our lives. A question so central, yet so simplistic that it almost hurts: Where are you from? A simple one-word response is sufficient for a majority of people while I have to come up with a soliloquy, explaining that I was born in Germany, my mother is Czech and my father was born in the Ukraine but in fact he is a U.S. citizen, which would then also make me American. Usually by the time I finish my curriculum vitae all I see is confused faces. The other day during Economics class our teacher assigned a paper in which we had to choose the country that we feel strongly about and once again I was the only one who spent half of the class contemplating.
All these trivial everyday situations clearly show that I am basically a stranger anywhere I go. Over the years that I have spent elucidating my nationality to others I found two possible answers to the question that torments me everytime it is posed. I put all my hopes in these responses as I expected them to save me some time so that I could dedicate myself to the more important things in life. Almost an entire year I was answering the pernicious question with the following two statements: “I’m Jewish” or “I’m sort of cosmopolitan”. At times I used the seemingly clever combination of the two above: “I’m a cosmopolitan Jew”. Even the friendly smile I was putting on while asserting this phrase wouldn’t prevent the logical consequence of my vis-à-vis craving an explanation so that I was forced to illustrate my origin in greater depth anyway. After numerous awkward conversations I quickly drew the conclusion that my shortcuts just don’t seem to work, not to mention that they are not grammatically correct answers to the question: “Where are you from?”
Sometimes I wish I were of a particular nationality, having both parents coming from that specific country so that there would be no doubt about where I am from whatsoever. Despite all the complications in my life that result from my cosmopolitism, I am relatively proud of my multinationality. Having lived in the Czech Republic for more than a decade, I have been able to observe quite a peculiar phenomenon among the country’s Romany population. Even though a majority of the recent generations was born within the Czech borders most of these people are desperately trying not to be labeled as “Czech”. They insist on the fact that they are Roma and thus not part of any particular country. The same sort of behavior can be observed among the African Americans in the United States. Some – I should probably say a minority – still refuse to be considered American, arguing that their roots are African. Even in Germany, the country I was born in, a similar trend is quite common among the minority of Turkish immigrants.
The question that arises from these sets of examples is what in fact constitutes a majority? Sticking with the model of Turks that is pertinent to Germany, it is quite evident that the majority in this case are the people of German origin. Nevertheless, this bulk is composed of several fragments itself: blue- or brown-eyed, left- or right-handed, male or female, tall, short, skinny and obese people. The answer is blowing in the wind.
Indeed, nationality can be quite irrelevant when it comes to the concept of being a stranger. I attend the International School of Prague where there is an amount of different nationalities that largely exceeds my knowledge of numbers. Only few of the students, however, would in fact call the Czech Republic their home. Even fewer actually speak the language; hence a great part of the students would most likely consider themselves strangers in this country. This is where my cosmopolitism turns out to be handy: I can profit of the advantage of speaking Czech and knowing a tiny bit about the local culture, albeit I was not born here.
Eeach and every single one of us had the experience of being a stranger in some particular environment at least once, whether it was something as banal as a vacation. I dream of the day when a UFO lands on the field close to my house and strange, green figures climb out of the spaceship. One of the aliens comes up to me and starts speaking a language completely unknown to me, yet I am miraculously able to understand it. The outlandish character tells me that he is an extraterrestrial coming in peace to visit the earth. “Weird,” I answer, “Until now I always thought I was the extraterrestrial.” The green dwarf looks at me and says: “No, you look just like any other earthling.”
