Growing up everyone had an idea of not only what the countries I identified with should be but also what that entailed. French people – in the eyes of the Germans I grew up around – were meant to be dainty, speak with an accent and say ooh la la a lot. Or so I gathered from their comments. Poles on the other hand had a different outlook. To them the French were stylish and I’m really not sure what else except, if I’m being really honest, a way to get out of the country (meaning Poland) by marrying a French man and making sure you had a child with him. The term anchor baby hadn’t yet been invented, at least I hadn’t heard of it then. Americans all ate burgers and played basketball, and that seemed to be a perception held by Germans and Poles, but since most of the people I was in school with in Germany were ethnic Germans from what was then still the Iron Curtain, I’m not sure how much of it was something both groups felt or something people brought over when they started a new life on the other side of that iron curtain. 

But one thing was certain, people had expectations and I wasn’t fulfilling them. I didn’t dress like a French person (my style was more British-American including very much of the latter and a few touches here and there of the former), I didn’t have the accent they all expected, and I didn’t act like one either, though I’m not entirely sure what that entailed. And in any case, most people where we lived seemed to be getting their ideas of what a French person was / should be from the German translations of Enid Blyton’s books, and the occasional show with a French person depicted on TV (ironically, a French actor – Pierre Brice – portrayed their national idol, Winnetou, a fictional character brought to life by Karl May who had never set foot anywhere near the Wild West but wrote about “Indians and their white friend(s) as though his life depended on it. But that’s another story for another time). 

Eventually I told myself to hell with it and I’d just identify in my own way, thank you very much, but it was a long process and one that wasn’t exactly made easy between convincing people that yes, English was my native language (along with German) and that people not only could have two native tongues but could also decide how they identified and what they wanted to take from each culture. And still, sometimes that fear of not being seen as whatever country I want to be seen as still comes up like when I get asked where I grew up, and I stall because despite knowing that the question was asked out of genuine interest, somewhere in the back of my mind that little girl still shows up knowing that someone will question her allegations, because they do not fit the other person’s idea(l)s of how they imagined my life. Ironic, isn’t it?!