I started this blog in the middle of the story, as though it were some sort of Homeric epic. While I can hardly claim to have accomplished any heroic feats, my journey spanned several nations and exposed me to new cultural experiences. It was pretty epic in my book. Toward the end of the trip, on the ferry ride from Corfu to Athens, I watched the water trail behind the ship like white frothy fingers splaying across the surface of the Ionian Sea. I was transfixed by the way the water churned in the ferry’s wake, the way it was pushed away after being pulled in. It hit me then that I wasn’t like the water, I wasn’t violently crashing and quickly subduing. As I said, traveling isn’t a Herculean task, but I was on the cusp of completing a goal I’d had for years. I’d seen London, this remarkable city that had always felt a fingertip out of reach, and then I’d ventured even farther.
Though I had never set foot on UK soil before last year, I have always felt connected to England. Growing up, my parents subjected me to the cruelest of first-world-kid problems. They refused to get cable. I had no insight as to what Clarissa explained and no earthly clue who Stick Stickly was until I entered the fourth grade. Consequently, I watched a lot of British comedies on PBS. I loved Keeping Up Appearances for Hyacinth Bucket’s oblivious social mobility aspirations, Red Dwarf for the tongue-in-cheek approach to science fiction, and Mr. Bean for the largely silent, bumbling antics. For years, all I had access to were these Britcoms and others like Absolutely Fabulous, Are You Being Served?, Fawlty Towers, The Thin Blue Line, Blackadder, Chef!, and The Vicar of Dibley. These shows informed my sense of humor, and in a way they ostracized me from my classmates on my own terms.
These shows were a portal to a world where I wasn’t obligated to explain myself. My entire life, I’ve watched people peer at me through narrowed eyes as they try to resolve my provenance. My tan skin confuses people; it makes it difficult for them to figure out where I belong on their internal value scale. It’s exhausting to always have to answer the same degrading question every time I meet someone new. “What are you?” Human doesn’t suffice as an answer, and neither does American. They aren’t interested in my nationality, but they also can’t be bothered to sit through a lecture on the implications of African diaspora and intersectionality. “No, what are you really? Where are you from?” It doesn’t matter that I was born in America, that’s not the answer they’re looking for.
The mind is always calculating. People tend to subconsciously box you up when they meet you, so they can assess your worth. Sycophants might wonder “How much respect do I owe this person?” They want to mentally place you on a hierarchical rung, so they can keep tabs on those who are of value and dismiss those who they deem worthless. Granted, we can’t all be friends, but I am suspicious of those who regard ethnicity to be of greater import than identity when exploring affinity. Being biracial, I straddle the line between being black and white every day. I am frozen in a constant state of cultural liminality, where I am not quite Jamaican, not quite Irish, and yet not immediately accepted as an American. Growing up, I was told I couldn’t possibly be black because you got that good hair, though, and I couldn’t claim to be white because wait, you don’t wash your hair every day—that’s gross. My hair has always defined me, for reasons I can’t understand.
As a kid, I eagerly crossed the threshold of any door that helped me escape the marginalization I felt. Steeped in history and culture, modern England was as much a fantasy realm to me as any kingdom plagued by dragons or evil wizards. Britcoms, though rooted in reality, held the same appeal as the books I loved that were set in fictional universes. After following these shows for years, and tirelessly cheering on Chelsea FC from the confines of my home, I think I had this deluded notion that I belonged. It was pathological, like stalker-fan levels of compatibility false logic.
Getting from Heathrow to my hotel was easy. I studied a map and plotted a course. Problems arose, however, once I left the hotel. I had no idea where I was going. Not one clue. Equipped with a checklist of sights to see and places to go, organized by general location, I set off looking for an entrance to the Underground. After walking a considerable distance based on the advice of a street sign, I began to worry that I’d gone too far, or that the sign was posted as a cruel social exercise in futility. I determined to ask for directions from the next moderately friendly-looking woman I saw, so as to minimize my chances of being abducted. (Because I’m too crafty to get capital-T Taken, duh.) I spotted two petite girls around my age, and politely veered into their path, not unlike a crazy person.
I blanked. “Where is the . . . underground . . . station?” I prayed they would assume English wasn’t my first language. They pointed across the street and gave me a bless her heart smile before wishing me good luck. When I got back to the hotel room later that night, I told my two Australian roommates. One laughed, but the other corrected me.
“You should have asked where the tube was,” she explained haughtily. I rolled my eyes at my own foolishness, nodded, and repeated tube to myself. “No. The CH-ube,” she stressed.
That one stupid word peeled back the protective veneer of my illusory British identity and exposed me for what I truly was—a stranger in a foreign land. Suddenly this country that had always felt like a second home became distant. I was physically in England, but I finally felt fully rooted in America. Once again, I felt a transatlantic detachment from my surroundings. You cannot choose where you come from, but if you’re lucky you can choose where you go. I’m not done with London yet. The next time I go, I won’t feel like an outsider, I’ll simply be picking up where I left off.