Letter from Ireland, pt 1

Letters we've never sent. We all have them. This one is mine. Composed in 1997 when I was living in Dublin. It describes a profound, emotional discovery about myself and my identity. Perhaps, if you are of two places, you can relate to my feelings, especially if you are emotionally tied to one of those two places in particular.

Objectively, with hindsight, I would note how accurately the studies and traits of biculturals that I have discovered and blogged on in the past year relate to the insights and emotions expressed in the letter. Also, this is an artifact. We change.

Letter from Ireland


I've decided I do not like anyone visiting me in Ireland. Since I'm from America, I mean I do not like Americans, other than my parents, visiting me. Friends or family. I suffer an unwelcome sensation during every such visit. They bring "Americanness" with them and their very presence blurs the nicely clear-cut division between my experiences in both countries.

Their very presence pollutes the integrity, blurs the distinctiveness of my experience here. Partially this attitude might result from a natural reluctance to share "my" unique adventure--a jealousy. Yet it runs much deeper than that, and the problem is as much their doing as my own.

This being said, the occasions have been of a signal importance to me. They have helped me to clarify something fundamental to my nature, to who I am, and for that at least I am grateful. To whit: I am not American.

I am not American. To actually realize, and express, the words for the first time out loud brought the profoundest relief, the sensation of a urgent dream, or the remembrance of something important but lost, emotionally lost, to the psyche. The essential word on the tip of the tongue, finally recovered and released: I am not American.