The word “expatriate” derives from the Medieval Latin expatriatus, which means to have left one’s own country. It was and, according to Webster’s, still is a synonym of banished.
If you google the word expatriate you can find literally millions of proud expatriates. Personally, I wonder about a group of people so happy about banishment they ask for it and promote it via themed cookbooks. It just proves what I’ve always known. We expats have some masochistic tendencies.
Ok, not all us. There are lots of expats who didn’t have a choice. I’m talking about those of us who volunteered for banishment. We applied for the job, or requested the assignment, or married the handsome foreigner. Knowing full well we’d be giving up unappreciated comforts like being able to count change by touch and recognizing the people featured on it. Many of us even gave up our voice by moving into a language we can’t speak.
We tell people the rewards of the new job/marriage/opportunity-for-world-improvement will more than outweigh the costs of self-imposed banishment but the mere fact that we have a price at which we are willing to leave our home sets us apart from, I believe, the vast majority of people in the world.
There are literally millions of people who would rather live in a tent for decades than give up their home and rebuild somewhere else. Certainly, relocating across the world requires resources many people don’t have but war torn and failing states are populated by successful professionals (I’m thinking of several personal friends here) who could find jobs in countries without an inflation rate over 1,000%. But they stay. Why? Because they are home. They will not give up their family, their culture, their home for any price.
Whereas many expats look at the really lustrous hair this man could pass to his offspring (or the higher salary, whatever motivates you), weigh it against living in a country with street signs in a different alphabet, and our response is “Sign me up!” I’m willing to bet if polled, the general consensus of the world would be that we are some crazy mofos.
And I think they’d be right. We’re not certifiable but part of us definitely wanted the hardship. We revel in the fact that our daily lives would reduce lesser people (or ourselves if we haven’t gotten enough sleep) to tears and pleasure in our own pain is the definition of masochism.
Fortunately, it’s a growing pain. We know it won’t last forever and surviving it, building a life like the one we left behind, makes us worthier people. Worthy of what? Well, I’d accept revered silence whenever I speak during holiday meals with my family.
After all, why did we struggle to build a life in a different culture if not to become wiser, more open-minded people with all the best stories? All the struggling had to be for something. I mean, I’m not a masochist.
