I never fully realized how American I was until I went to live abroad, first in Greece, then Malaysia and Japan. Outside of my home country, my accent, my clothing, my manners, attitudes, tastes, and values suddenly became "foreign" in the perception of people who had always been the "foreigners" to me. I could be instantly loved or hated, not for being myself but for being a symbol of my culture. I was Yankee. I was Joe. I was an oppressor and an imperialist. I was rich, I was powerful, I was free. In fact, I was almost anything the rest of the world thought I was, except perhaps just me.
Why wasn't I doing something about toppling the Greek junta back in 1972? Why did I tolerate the domestic policies of the apartheid South African government? Why did I support totalitarian regimes in Central America and the Middle East? Why didn't I do more to feed the starving, heal the sick, stop the wars, and protect the environment?
Oddly enough, I (little old me) was in complete agreement with these "critics" regarding most of the actions or inactions that I (the big bad United States) was being criticized for. My liberal politics fell far to the left of my government's. Not that it made much difference, of course. I recall one conversation that went something like this: Critic: Why are you in Vietnam? Me: I'm not in Vietnam, I'm in Malaysia with the Peace Corps. I came here instead of going there because I'm against armed intervention in Indochina. Critic: But you are in Vietnam. You are killing innocent people there. Me: I'm a thousand miles from Vietnam. I never killed anyone. Critic: If you truly believe in peace, why don't you stop the war? Me: I'm just one person. I did what I could. I voted against Nixon. I wrote letters to my congressmen. I even joined a protest march in Washington. Critic: Why don't you go home? Leave Vietnam alone. Go back to your country, you capitalist war-monger!... and so on.
At some point, I gave up trying to explain the difference between myself and America, just as I gave up trying to explain that my home, in Indiana, was not Chicago (Critic: Chicago! Oh... Al Capone! Ratatat-tat-tattat!!!), that I was a non-smoker by choice (Critic: All men smoke! Me: I'm on medication), and that I was not in any way homesick for my family (Me: All I miss is football on Sunday. Critic: I love football too. I'm the team goalie).
In the early 1980's, after I had spent a decade living outside the United States, a Japanese colleague offered me a revelation: "You've become too Japanese. You had better return soon and relearn how to be American." I had already come to a similar conclusion. I no longer knew what television programs were popular back home. I felt more comfortable driving on the left side of the road than the right. I found myself automatically bowing to people I'd meet instead of reaching out to shake hands. And the rice paper screens in my apartment had ceased to seem exotic to me. Sometimes I would leave a conversation wondering whether we had been speaking in English or Japanese.
It was at that point I realized I had reached the status of a true émigré. I use the French term instead of "emigrant" because it implies a political reason for leaving as opposed to an economic one. I did not go out impoverished into the world looking for my fortune or seeking a place of better or greater opportunity than my homeland. When I protested the U.S. foreign policies of that era, I had been told by my countrymen, "America: Love it or Leave It." I chose to leave and ironically discovered that I loved my country even more.
Going back, however, was not an option. Ronald Reagan was leading America on the "right" track by then, raving about evil empires, creating tax breaks for the rich, and eliminating programs for the arts and the poor. I did not want my tax money to feed his machine. I decided to remain an émigré and shift my focus instead, putting my new "foreign-ness" to better advantage with a career helping American companies market their products abroad.
